The Child Eater
by Maddy77
Summary: Stuck on the slow path, Capt. Jack Harkness receives a letter instructing him to save two American boys and prevent a paradox from unraveling the universe. Spoilers for DW through "Utopia"; references to TW through "Fragments"; pre-series Winchesters with spoilers through Season 5.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: For my new readers, this story is_ fourth_ in an ongoing series, starting with "The Shadow Proclamation", continuing in "What Power", and being lead into by "A Mission Before Dying". I'd strongly recommend starting at the beginning; it'll make a lot more sense!

The usual disclaimers apply: I own nothing but my love for these shows and the creative teams that make them possible.

* * *

Jack is only sure it's 1994 because the letter says it is.

It's gotten harder to keep track of it all. He's been on the slow path for one hundred and twenty-five years, and it all kind of starts to blend together. The decades, the years. He pays attention to the days, though, and he's positive that it's April thirtieth. And April thirtieth is the day he needs to find the Winchester boys, according to the letter he's received.

He turns the letter over in his hands, as he's done countless times in the past forty-eight hours. The deep blue envelope is tucked in his backpack, the only luggage he's brought on this cross-continental trip, but the letter stays in his pocket, where he can reach it. Rough off-white paper, thin, manic script, ink made from substances that shouldn't have been seen on this planet for centuries, if ever. It contains his instructions: towns, addresses, names, ages, aliases, types of death he might find visited upon his person and an apology in advance, contacts that might be useful, people who owe favors to Time Lords, and detailed explanations of how to non-fatally stop various extraterrestrials from killing two young human boys when they are very, very set on the idea.

He thinks, as he watches the small American town they're passing through blur by out the window of the bus, that maybe if he does this, the Doctor will find him again, and actually _talk_ to him this time.

Or maybe not, he reminds himself. Either way he has to do it, because if he doesn't, it creates a paradox. The letter tells him that there are big things ahead for these boys, although the Doctor is predictably vague about what those things are, and that if they are killed tomorrow, it would be universe-rendingly bad. It would, of course, also be normal-bad that a fifteen-year-old and a ten-year-old were going to be murdered.

Paper-clipped to the letter are two pictures. They are blurry and candid, carefully snapped from a distance so as not to alert the subjects to the photographer's presence. Both boys are in each picture, each picture with a different brother in the foreground. It's like there wasn't a point where they could be photographed separately. Jack pulls the pictures off of the letter and studies them individually.

The older one. Tall and tense, a shotgun dangling casually from his hand as though it were an extension of his arm. Jack folds the letter and recalls its contents. Dean Winchester is fifteen years old, currently enrolled at Hamphire High School in Romney, West Virginia under the pseudonym David Jackson. Dean is extremely proficient in ranged weapons and has advanced hand-to-hand combat skills, as well as exhibiting what the Doctor characterizes as severe paranoia and trust issues. He hasn't met the kid yet, but Jack isn't sure he agrees with that. He wonders if one can fairly call it paranoia, when the monsters are really after you; if you can blame a kid for trust issues when he's basically been allowed to know two people who aren't trying to kill him.

The younger one. Still a child, thin and small, serious eyes peering out from beneath a shaggy mess of brown hair. Samuel Winchester, called Sam or Sammy by his family, is ten years old (almost eleven—it will be his birthday in two days), enrolled at Romney Elementary School under the pseudonym Evan Jackson. Sam has limited proficiency in ranged weapons combat and is too small yet to be very good at hand-to-hand combat, but he is evidently a very good runner. The Doctor warned Jack in the letter that while Sam himself isn't much of a threat quite yet, his older brother is extremely protective of him, and is in fact more dangerous when Sam is threatened than when he himself is.

In the background of the picture of Sam is an older man, with a grizzled beard and an unhappy expression. The letter tells Jack that this is John Winchester, the boys' father. He's taken them to Romney on the trail of what he's calling a Black Annis, but is probably a nasty type of haemovore from the Kaldean Cluster. Jack isn't so fond of that word, "probably", but it's not like he's usually one hundred percent sure of what he's doing. John, the letter says, is likely to be out and about without his boys most of the time, as he won't want to expose them to the Black Annis, who is a known child-eater. The boys will likely either be at school, or at their motel. If John finds Jack near the boys he's likely to shoot him, the letter warns, and then with what Jack interprets as a cheerful tone reminds him that it probably wouldn't matter because Dean would probably have already put a couple of bullets in him before John knew what was going on.

Jack holds the photo with Sam in the foreground, in which all three Winchesters are visible. There are no smiles to be seen, just anxiety bordering on fear, and grief buried so deep he wonders if they even notice anymore. He knows what happened to them. But he's lost so much, lost so many, that he wonders how the death of a mother—a loss so many endure—could break a family like this.

He tucks the pictures back into the letter and puts it in his pocket as the bus pulls into the station. The vehicle rocks back slightly as it stops, and Jack grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and standing with one hand on the seat in front of him. He flashes a grin at the driver as he passes, and exits the bus.

April in West Virginia is muggy and hot, a far cry from Cardiff. Jack wishes he'd brought a lighter shirt. Or jeans, at least. He gets more than one curious glance as he walks down the streets of the town, dressed sharply in a pale blue shirt, red suspenders, and gray slacks. A couple of the glances he returns with a sunny smile, and notes with satisfaction how their owners stumble a step before continuing on.

The motel isn't hard to find. The town is small and easy to navigate, and besides, the letter left him very clear instructions on that matter, like everything else.

Jack sticks his hands in his pockets as he surveys it, wrinkling his nose. Not the kind of accommodations he's used to, if he's going to be honest. A little dingy. A little no-tell motel for his tastes. But this isn't about his tastes. This is about two boys and the fate of the Universe.

And the Doctor.

Always the Doctor.

He walks up to the girl at the front desk. She has stringy brown hair and hazel eyes that could be startlingly pretty if she had some life in her, and there's a Walkman on the desk and a gossip magazine in her hands. He has to clear his throat to get her attention.

She looks up, disinterested, but Jack is gratified to see her eyes widen a little as she takes him in. She takes the headphones off of her ears. "C'n I help you?" she mutters.

"Room for three nights, please." He really only needs it for two nights. If it takes longer than forty-eight hours he's failed anyway, but he'll want to crash for the night after the battle's done.

"'Kay." She pops her bubble gum as she takes his money and hands him a receipt and a key. Jack looks at the number on the tag. Twenty-three. Just like the letter said it would be. Three rooms down from the Winchesters. He flashes a winning smile at the girl, who ignores him and puts her headphones back on. His smile fades, and he shrugs his backpack higher onto his shoulder.

His room faces the parking lot, and he walks down a sidewalk under eaves painted with cracked green paint to get to it. It's nearly three o'clock. He wonders if the boys are back from school yet. The thought, which sounds so domestic in his head, gives him pause for a moment. Captain Jack Harkness, wondering if the kids are off school. The things he does for the sake of the integrity of Time.

Jack wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and ponders how hot it is so early in the year. He wonders if it's weird weather. For all his accent suggests differently, he hasn't spent much time in America. He's used to the mild summers of Cardiff, and—

"_Uh!_"

He staggers back just a step, his free hand instinctively heading for his concealed pistol. He lets it fall, though, when he looks up and sees a boy, scrambling on the ground for the books that spilled out of his unzipped backpack.

It's Sam Winchester, and as he realizes this, the kid stops his dash for the books. He is looking up at him with what Jack knows is supposed to pass for apology but really just looks like fear. "I'm really sorry, sir," he says. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

Jack smiles reassuringly at him, crouching to help Sam pick up the books. You only get one shot at a first impression, after all. "No problem," he says, handing the kid his English language arts book. "I was distracted, too. You okay?"

Sam looks confused, and stares at Jack for a long moment. When Jack gets a little too close, leaning over to pick up Sam's math book, the kid rears away, his nose wrinkling in something that looks like disgust. "Um. Uh, yeah," he says, shaking himself out of his surprise and evening his expression. "Yes, sir, I'm fine. Are you?"

"Just fine," Jack replies, making note of the nose-wrinkling, and thinking _so much for that first impression_. Sam stands, and Jack does so, as well, sticking his hand out. "I'm Jack."

Sam stares at the hand, gripping the straps of his backpack. "Ev-evan," he replies after a moment, not taking his eyes off of Jack's hand, like he wasn't convinced it wasn't going to attack him. "Listen, I gotta—"

The door to room twenty-six opens, and another boy steps out, keeping one hand hidden behind the door frame. _Gun_, Jack thinks, sharpening at the thought. The boy—Dean—narrows his eyes. "Hey, Evan, you all right?" he calls. Jack notices with wry amusement, past his fading adrenaline, that Dean puts a little too much emphasis on his brother's pseudonym. For all the years of living this life, evidently the kid needs a little more practice with the finer points of espionage.

Sam turns around, and his relief at hearing his brother's voice is visible, almost palpable. "Yeah, I'm fine," he calls back, shoving his books firmly into his backpack. This time, he zips it up.

"Get on in," Dean says firmly, and Sam obeys. Dean stays at the door, watching Jack, until his younger brother is safe inside the motel room. Jack can see the fight happening in Dean's head. The kid's tight posture, his single clenched fist, tells Jack that he wants to say something. Wants to pick a fight, on the off chance that Jack did something to Sam, but there's no reason to do that. No evidence that anything happened to Sam. And a man like John Winchester wouldn't have raised his boys to pick fights they didn't need. So Dean doesn't say anything, but instead closes the door behind them. It shuts just a second after Jack sees the midday sun glinting off the metal of the shotgun.

He stays there for just a moment, an extra heartbeat, and allows himself the luxury of pity for the two kids he's come to save.

And the luxury of pity for himself, because these kids aren't going to want to be saved, not by him. And it's going to be an uphill battle.

He sighs deeply, wallowing for just a moment, and walks into his room.

It's as classy on the inside as it is on the outside, and he falls one notch further into self-pity. He used to live such a good life. The best rooms, the best food, and the best companionship that good looks and charm could steal. Then the Doctor came in and everything changed.

_"I was better off as a coward,"_ he'd told the Time Lord.

Well, too late for that now.

He drops his backpack by the door, and goes to the bed, sitting on it reluctantly. (Not that he's any kind of paragon of clean living, but he does have standards.) He fishes the letter out of his pocket.

_Jack. I am so sorry, but I need your help._

Etc, etc. He skims down the part that he's read over and over, the part about how the Doctor needs him, because this isn't about self-aggrandizement, not at this point. That was the gearing-up on the way. Now, he needs to figure out how to save these kids and prevent a paradox from destroying the Earth.

Regular Torchwood stuff. But, he reminds himself, for the Doctor. And on his own terms, this time.

_John Winchester is following what he thinks of as a Black Annis,_ the Doctor had written._ Mythology, which is what John is following, describes the Black Annis as a blue-faced witch with iron claws. She's called a flesh-eater and, according to legend, has a taste for children. There are, as I'm sure you know, several creatures from known planets that more or less fit this description, at least well enough if you factor in decay of veracity through the years._

Jack snorts. Decay of veracity. The Doctor's way of saying "humans playing Telephone with their tales of aliens".

_Likeliest answer is one of a number of haemovores from the Kaldean Cluster. There's no real evidence saying that they attack children, but like any predator they will hone in on the weakest members of a herd. In an era that sequesters its sick and dying in facilities that can be difficult to gain access to, children are the weakest, most visible targets, so we can't confirm or reject a Kaldean haemovore based on that bit of information, and I'm rambling._

_If it's a Kaldean haemovore it's probably not traveling by itself, so be careful. They tend to travel in groups of three to five. They have some pretty glaring weaknesses, though. First, they sequester themselves in their bowers during the day, usually found on cliffs. They hide themselves pretty well from humans but I don't doubt you can find them, especially since you're looking. (Point here: John Winchester will also be able to find them. You might want to try to get to them before he does, as he'll just kill the lot of them, unless they kill him first.)_

_Second, they are very sensitive to sound. Legend associates them with the night because they can't be around human society during the day due to the noise levels. Your sonic blaster (which I still don't like, Jack) should be able to incapacitate them. But the stories aren't lying about their iron claws. (Well, they're not technically iron, but their chemical structure is similar enough for all practical purposes, and these stories weren't written with the aid of twenty-first century science.) They're fast, too, so you'll need to catch them off-guard. If they get their hands on you it could take even you some time to recover, and time is something you don't have to waste._

_That's where the good news stops. Let's get to the bad news. The bad news is that there's a chance that they might not be working alone, as in they might have an associate of another species_.

Jack recalls that scotch he was drinking back in Cardiff when the letter came, and wishes he had it now. He leans back on the bed, holding the letter up.

_If they're not, contact a woman named Missouri Mosely. She might be able to help you figure out who it is controlling the Black Annis._

_You need to understand this, Jack. I can't tell you the reasons, and you know why I can't, but these boys are important. And not important like every human life is, that's not what I mean. I mean that their actions later in their lives are integral to this timeline, and if they aren't around to complete those actions, it will be devastating. They have many enemies, and they've always had many enemies. John Winchester won't be able to help you; he won't know. And anyway asking him would likely only end with another too-long period of recovery. Missouri's number is at the end of this letter with the other contacts you might need. She knows me. But she'll probably know who you are, too. She's a bit wibbly-wobbly herself._

_The boys have enemies, Jack. What they need is friends._

Jack folds the letter, placing it gently on the bedside table. His hand lingers over it for a moment.

Black Annis. He's spent enough time in the United Kingdom that he was familiar with their legends, and he's heard of the Black Annis before. Vague sorts of stories, something something child eater something something evil woman something something awful and scary. She was half crone, half primitive boogeyman. He seems to recall something about her skinning children and wearing their hides, which he'd thought, at the time, to be an unnecessarily gruesome little embellishment to the tale.

In the past he had dismissed it as typical folklore misogyny, but he supposes he could have tried to think harder about aliens the Black Annis resembled. Kaldean Cluster haemovores would have taken some thinking, but it makes enough sense. They are blue-skinned, they do have claws that resemble iron more closely than any other terrestrial substance, and they are flesh-eaters. Vicious predators, not content to settle for blood like most other haemovores. He's not sure about the hide-wearing, although it makes sense. Given that they take the whole corpse rather than just exsanguinating it like normal haemovores, maybe they decided to be efficient with their hunting. When he thinks about it in terms of children from his own species it sounds horrible, of course, but thinking like a Kaldean haemovore, it's just frugality. Besides, they don't have human children in the Kaldean Cluster, not until at _least_ the fortieth century.

He doesn't recall any subspecies of Kaldean haemovore being particularly clever, which is the first good news he can recall apart from the bit about their sonic sensitivity the Doctor mentioned. Not sneaky, just...brutal. But brutal he can deal with, because technology trumps brute force, and he still has his sonic blaster, and other, more lethal guns, as well. If it comes to that.

Whether or not the Doctor would approve, he adds a touch defensively.

So. Hard to kill and fond of killing, but not clever. So what about _not working alone_? That one puzzles Jack. Kaldean haemovores aren't the stupidest creatures he's ever encountered, but they're pretty far down the list. Why would some more intelligent being recruit them for any reason? With the exception of one subspecies, which doesn't have the telltale claws that would convince John Winchester that it was a Black Annis, the Kaldean haemovores don't even have a translatable language—more a series of rhythmic grunts that serve perhaps ten different purposes, ranging from procreative invitation to alerts to danger. How could someone _recruit_ them for anything?

Maybe the Doctor's wrong.

Jack laughs, once, a quiet yet harsh sound.

Yeah, right. That sounds likely.

He stands up, the bed creaking beneath him. He needs some air.

He steps out of his room, closing the door quietly behind himself. There's not much of a view outside of the room; just the parking lot, really. But the sky is lovely. At night, he's sure, the stars will be, too. Bright in the sky without the light pollution of the cities that Jack tends to stick to. He'll be able to find a couple of stars whose systems he's visited, probably. He thinks back longingly to the days when he wasn't stuck, wasn't trapped on Earth.

He doesn't understand _why_.

Why the Doctor has abandoned him. If he knew where Jack was, why didn't he say something? Why didn't he knock? Why didn't he explain? Because, dammit, he owes Jack an explanation. If nothing else, he owes him that.

Jack gave his _life_ on Satellite 5 for the Doctor, and for lovely Rose. He gave his life, and they'd taken his death, too. And they'd clipped his wings.

Jack isn't sure he believes in a higher power. Not higher than the Doctor, anyway. But if he did, he'd ask why he had to end up trapped like this. Because he would have come back. From wherever and whenever he was, whatever beautiful, exotic, fantastic planet he was on and whatever exciting century he was in, he would have come back to the middle of nowhere, America, in 1994, to save these kids.

He would have done it, if the Doctor had asked him to.

They didn't have to ground him on Earth, in a century that didn't even have holographic television.

A small noise startles him (_alerts him_, he corrects himself, Captain Jack Harkness does not get startled), and he glances to his left.

The door to room twenty-six is open, and Dean Winchester is in the process of stepping out of it when he notices Jack.

Their eyes meet. Knowing that there's nothing he could do or say that would make this meeting less bad than it is, Jack settles for watching the boy's face carefully. It's an open book. His expression starts off startled (_actually startled,_ Jack thinks), then quickly shifts quickly to a hint of fear before settling on anger and aggression. He scowls, his eyes narrowing like before, but Jack can see that the lack of a shotgun in his hands is making him anxious. He doesn't have that air of surety that he had before. A gun can do wonders for a boy's confidence.

Dean, keeping his eyes on Jack, steps back inside and closes the door with perhaps a bit more force than is strictly necessary.

Jack sighs, glaring up at the yet-invisible stars as though the Doctor could see him.

Yes, definitely so much for first impressions.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I'm a little unhappy with the pacing here, but despite all the action this is really only the beginning. Jack still has no idea what the big picture holds, and he's in for an awakening.

I figure that if you're familiar with Jack, a warning of whump is really kind of unnecessary. However, for my lovely non-Whovian readers (for whose continued support I am so grateful), this story is not kind to Jack. You are warned! Thanks for the comments, favs, and follows, and please let me know what you think. This story is still in the very active process of being written, so your feedback is very helpful and always appreciated.

* * *

The motel is not sufficiently nice that Jack particularly wants to hang around all afternoon, so he grabs his backpack and decides to see if he can get this over with.

The nearest cliffs, where the Kaldean haemovores are likeliest to be hiding out, are four miles north of town. It's close enough to walk if he keeps a brisk pace, which is good, since Jack didn't rent a car. He didn't figure he'd have to.

"Don't worry about a car, Jack," the former Time Agent mutters to himself, nearly an hour into his walk. Sweat drips down his face, and he wipes it away irritably. His sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, but it doesn't really help, or even make him feel better. "It's April, and it's only four miles. The weather will be nice. You'll enjoy the fresh air."

He kicks a stone on the side of the road. It's a petulant gesture, but unlike the sleeves, it _does _make him feel better. So he doesn't care.

Hanging Rocks offers tours, but it's closing in on five o'clock, and he doubts that they'll be sending a group out again today. He probably should have gotten here earlier, as a tour group makes for a convenient cover story should he be found by anyone official, but perhaps it's better that he doesn't surround himself with civilians.

The cliffs rose high above him as he gets to the park. They are all but sheer, and he finds himself slightly breathless as he tilts his head back to gaze at them. He's been on Earth for over a century this time around, but the wonder that sent him traveling through time and space still exists in him, and these cliffs are _new_. Something he's never seen. And there's something marvelous about that.

He recovers, and carefully scans the area. He sees the visitor's station, and can tell immediately where the tour leads. That's where the Black Annis _won't_ be. If what the Doctor said about their sonic sensitivity is true, and there's no reason why it shouldn't be, they wouldn't make their bower where there would be humans wandering by while they slept.

As he opens the door to the visitor's station, he sees a young man and an older woman working. "Refill the fauna brochures, Greg," the woman is saying, and the young man rolls his eyes and begins to do as she told him. They both look up when the bell jangles and Jack steps in.

The young man, Greg, glances at the clock.

"I know I'm late," Jack says, grinning and holding his hands up in a placating manner. "I was just in the area and wanted to get a map, convince my friends to come with me tomorrow."

Greg stares at him with a blank expression.

"Maps are right there," the woman says, pointing to the right wall, where there are two shelves haphazardly piled with various maps. Jack notices the sharp, disapproving look she sends to her employee.

"Do these show the whole park?" Jack asks, picking up a likely-looking one and turning it over in his hands.

The woman nods. "The whole thing."

"Physical. Happen to have a topographic one, too?" he asks, opening the map up and pulling a face at it.

The woman frowns, but nods again. "I can get a copy for you from the back." She left to do so, leaving Jack to peruse the center while Greg pointedly ignored him.

He's inspecting a few flora specimen when he sees something, quick and barely within his field of vision, out the window—a fleeting shadow, conspicuous to his eyes in its attempt to be inconspicuous.

By the time he looks up it's already gone, but he has a sinking feeling that he knows what it is. He checks the clock. Five minutes til five o'clock. He'd thought it a good time to come do questionably legal things in a usually-occupied area. Maybe he wasn't the only one.

The woman comes back with the map and he takes it from her quickly. She narrows her eyes, but he flashes her his most charming smile, salutes her with his fist full of papers, and runs out of the visitor's center.

He opens the physical map and finds the hiking trails on it. No, no, and no. He finds the places close to roads. No to those, too. Nowhere too close to the visitor's center, and nowhere close to the observatory.

It narrows his options down significantly, but not significantly enough for his liking. It still leaves a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time in which to cover it. He has no more than forty-eight hours, and the clock is ticking.

He thinks suddenly about the flash in the corner of his vision. Which direction was it headed in?

That's the direction he takes.

It's rained recently, and the ground squelches beneath Jack's boots as he follows the fortunately clear tracks that his unintentional companion has made. He knows that the tracks will disappear after a while, because he knows who he is following and he isn't stupid, but the tracks are to throw off the Black Annis or overly-curious hikers or tour guides. Not a Time Agent from the fifty-first century who had already eliminated most of the places the Black Annis could have made their bower.

Predictably, it's only half a mile or so before the tracks vanish, almost entirely. John Winchester is a very good hunter. (Jack corrects himself in his head—_Hunter_. Capital H. It sounds so self-important, but he supposes that it's the little things that get people through a life like the one John has chosen for himself and his sons. Little things like occasionally indulging hubris.) And Jack's counting on the fact that John has, perhaps, spent more time at Hanging Rock and has already begun to eliminate viable locations for the bower. Maybe he's heading right to them, right now.

Maybe Jack can finish this before it even begins.

He comes up to a corner in the cliff, and pauses. He leans against it, and listens carefully. Ah, yes. The faint but unmistakeable sound of footfalls on drying mud, accompanied by the covering of tracks. He contemplates rounding the corner quietly, but the absolute last thing he wants to do is startle John Winchester. There's enough things that are likely to kill him on this job; he doesn't need to add angry, gun-happy Hunter to that list.

So he does the opposite, backtracks, and stomps onto the scene with all the grace and aplomb of a herd of elephants, just like a normal civilian would do.

John whirls around, but when Jack can see him, he's finishing hiding his gun rather than drawing it. He believes the facade, which is a small relief. Also, the bower isn't there, which means that Jack will have the opportunity to protect John if it comes down to it. The Doctor didn't charge Jack specifically with John's safety, but Jack assumes that the Winchesters come as a package deal. Besides. He's only seen Dean the two times at the motel, but he's seen enough. The boy doesn't need the added burden of being the adult of the household. If Jack is going to save the boys, he isn't going to let them be orphaned in the process.

"Hey there!" Jack calls, his voice just loud enough to carry to John. He wants to portray himself as mildly inept and certainly not a threat, but he doesn't want to call attention to them, either. The Black Annis should still be asleep, but there's no guarantee of that. "You a tour guide for one of the hikes?"

"No," John says, and past the veneer of friendliness Jack can see the screaming tension in him, the _why now I almost had them_ thoughts racing through his mind. "You lost?"

Jack shrugs in what he hopes translates as a care-free but helpless gesture. "Yeah. Got separated from my group, can't seem to find my way back. What are you, a park ranger?"

John considers for a heartbeat longer than could suggest truth. Jack wonders that nobody ever notices these things. "No, a buddy of mine got separated from our group, and I'm going to find him," he settles, meeting Jack's eyes evenly, so there's at least something he got right. The cover, however, is a little too similar to Jack's story for veracity. Jack is kind of disappointed.

Jack squints up at the sky, pretending he doesn't know what time it is. "It's getting late in the afternoon," he says. "Why don't I stick with you, we find your friend, and then head back to the visitor's center? That way neither of us gets stranded alone after nightfall."

If looks could kill, Jack would have been temporarily inconvenienced. John is obviously trying to find a way out of this, and is extremely unhappy that he's being slowed down by this stupid hiker.

"I don't think that's a good idea," John says. "Look, I'm pretty sure the visitor's center is back that way." He points in precisely the right direction. "It shouldn't be more than a mile or so."

"What about you?" Jack insists. "I mean, two pairs of eyes are better than one. Your friend might not be as lucky as me, finding you like this. I don't mind tagging along." He shrugs that ridiculous shrug again. "And besides, I'm obviously not good at following directions. I'll probably just manage to get myself lost again."

John presses his lips together, cracks the knuckles of his right hand. Then he nods tightly. "Okay. Fine. Keep close."

He takes off quickly, almost like a last-ditch effort to lose Jack, and Jack follows him. The former Time Agent walks light and careful atop the leaves, leaving almost as little track as John. "Jack," he says by way of introduction, sticking his hand out for John.

John studies the proffered hand for a moment, and Jack has a flash of the Hunter's younger son's repulsed expression when he'd tried this same move with him. But unlike his son, John takes Jack's hand. His grip is calloused and firm. "John," he says. No pseudonym, he notices. But that makes sense, when Jack thinks of it. If someone is looking for John Winchester, then they wouldn't be likely to go after David or Evan Jackson. He had nothing to gain by sharing a pseudonym with his sons.

"Are you local?" Jack asks.

He sees John suppress a wince, and decides he'd better back off. At least at this point he can get John out of harm's way if they do happen across the Black Annis bower, so there's really no reason to antagonize John further. The man's not going to trust him, and in any case he's already messed up by getting on the boys' bad side, however he'd managed to do that. He couldn't use a friendship with John to get close enough to the boys to protect them any better, since Dean's likely to tell John what happened on Sam's way back from school anyway. And the Winchesters are probably the types to do pretty detailed descriptions of people who set off alarms for them, and there probably isn't another man who looks enough like Jack in this small town to give Jack any kind of benefit of the doubt.

"No," John responds tersely. Jack nods and doesn't ask any more questions.

They follow the line of the cliff, both men keeping extremely wary eyes around. Jack is behind John, a position that implies trust or at least a belief that Jack is harmless, which he finds surprising and chalks up to both his convincing performance as a bumbling tourist and John's extreme anxiety about facing the Black Annis with a civilian on his tail. He can see John's fingertips resting lightly on his concealed gun. Jack's fingers are doing the same thing, especially now, as he begins to feel a sinking sensation in his stomach. Something's wrong, and something's wrong very close ahead.

"Did you hear that?" he breathes to John.

John stops, holding up a fist to communicate to Jack that he needs to stop, too. It's an automatic and military gesture, one that Jack recognizes immediately, but one that was born more of instinct than anything else on John's part. He turns back to Jack, a look of hesitance in his eyes as he waits for Jack's reaction. Jack just tries to look scared. "Hear what?" John whispers back.

Jack shakes his head like he doesn't know. "I just...ahead. I thought I heard something ahead."

"Like...my friend?" John asks, and what he's really asking is, _did it sound human?_

Jack shakes his head again. "No. Not like a person. Like...an animal."

John swallows hard. "I have a gun," he said, keeping his voice very calm, "for exactly this situation. I have a license," he adds, as an afterthought.

Jack nods, hoping he looks pale enough to be a convincing civilian.

"Where did you hear it?" John asks, his sharp eyes darting around. The knit of his brow tells Jack that he's angry with himself for not hearing whatever it was that Jack heard. Angry, and a little frightened. Is he looking his touch, he wonders? If he didn't hear that, what else didn't he hear? Was he putting his boys in danger, when they hunted together? More so than usual?

Watching those fears traverse across John's face, Jack feels the smallest pang for the lie. He didn't _hear_ anything, just felt that awful sinking feeling, and if he's wrong, he's going to feel like a fool. But better than not saying anything and, instead of feeling like a fool, having to bring John's body back to his boys. He has a feeling that if that were to happen, he'd better hope that the boys left before Dean realized that he could come back from the dead. The kid would probably be happy to kill him multiple times for letting harm befall their father. "Right around that corner," he whispers.

John nods for him to follow, and puts a finger to his lips so that Jack will do it quietly. With his other hand he pulls his gun from his jeans, holds it up in front of him, and creeps soundlessly to the corner.

He peers around, and jerks his head back.

The increased rate of his breath tells Jack that he wasn't wrong.

"I need you to stay here," John breathes. Jack frowns. "There's something around the corner. I can't make it out. Possibly a bear."

A bear. It's everything Jack can do not to laugh. A bear would be a welcome diversion at this point.

"Whatever you do, don't move, until it's distracted," John was saying when Jack returned to the conversation. "Stay here. No matter what you hear."

Jack wonders, if he were actually just some random hiker, how he would have been expected to take a statement like that. "No matter what I hear?" he echoes.

John nods solemnly. "You...have to make a lot of noise, to scare off a bear, sometimes. It could sound like I'm hurt. I won't be. You get out of here as soon as you hear me engage it."

"You want me to...leave you alone, here, with the bear," Jack says, slowly.

John nods again. "Yes."

It takes Jack a moment to recover, to get back into character, but when he does he just mumbles, "Okay."

John takes a deep breath, preps his gun, and sneaks around the corner.

Jack decides to give it ten seconds.

_Ten. Nine. Eight._

The crisp sound of leaves underfoot tells Jack that John's been seen, and had to move quickly to get into position with his gun.

_Seven. Six. Five._

The first gunshot goes off, followed by an inhuman shriek. It's one of pain, of anger, but not one accompanied by a wetness or a rattle or anything that would indicate that John got in a fatal shot. He's probably only managed to make it angry.

When that shriek is accompanied by other shrieks, but no other gunshots, Jack knows that John is in trouble.

_Four. Three. Two._

Screw the countdown. Jack pulls his sonic blaster out of its holster and rushes in after John.

He rounds the corner and immediately assesses the situation. Five Black Annis, two bearing down on John, the others clinging to the bower on the cliff and shrieking their encouragement. The Hunter is on the ground, struggling mightily, but the Black Annis are too strong for him. He lifts an arm to block a swipe from the iron-like claws, and is rewarded with a long, bloody gash down his arm. He cries out, covering his face.

The Black Annis lifts a hand to strike again, and Jack raises his blaster.

"Hey!" he shouts, and all the Black Annis, as well as an extremely surprised John, turn to look at him. He grins, and says, "Listen up."

He squeezes the trigger, and the Black Annis begin to scream.

Keeping the sound going, he makes his way carefully to John. The Black Annis around him scramble backwards, away from the blaster and the sound. Jack doesn't take his eyes off of them as he extends a hand to John. "This'll only keep them at bay for a minute. Get out of here."

John is staring at him with wide eyes. "Who the hell are you?" he asks, his voice raspy, but he accepts Jack's help as he stands. He winces once he's bearing his entire weight, and Jack notices a deep wound in his leg. He presses his lips together. He'll have to hold them off while John escapes, and it'll take a little while.

"It doesn't matter," Jack says. He inclines his head toward John's leg injury. "Before you get back to the boys clean that up so they don't track your scent."

Mistake.

John has frozen, his eyes narrowing. Jack shuts his eyes, cursing himself for his thoughtless comment. It doesn't matter if he managed to save John's life; at this point John is as likely to help him save the boys as he is to hand them over to the Black Annis himself. He's just put one more obstacle between himself and fulfilling his mission. "How do you know about my boys?" John asks, his voice low and threatening past the pain.

Jack lets out a growl of frustration. "I—it's not important right now! What part of _this will only hold them off for a minute_ are you not understanding? Do you want to get out of this alive, or not?"

Their eyes lock for a moment, the battle of wills all but palpable. The Black Annis are starting to inch back towards them, slowly and painfully, but surely. Jack glares desperately at John. "Look, I know you don't trust me, and I don't blame you. But you have literally nothing to lose by getting out of here. Your gun was obviously not working, and I'm giving you the chance to get back and regroup. You're not going to kill these things today."

John doesn't back down, raising his gun at the Black Annis as they close in. "I want to know how you know about my sons," John says, his voice cold and furious, "and damn everything else."

John takes a few steps forward, away from John, and the Black Annis retreat accordingly, recover for a moment, and continue their press forward. "It's a really long story that's better told away from imminent death," Jack snaps, "so if you would just _run_ we could—"

Jack never gets to finish that sentence.

His back arches in a vain attempt to escape the iron claws that sink deep into him. One of the Black Annis that had been on the cliff has managed to circle around him while he was talking to John, taking him unawares. He cries out as the pain floods through him, and he feels his grip on the sonic blaster loosen as he loses control of his muscles. Some cold, rational part of his brain supplies the explanation: _my spine has been severed._

As he falls he sees John's horrified face, sees his lips form words, but can't hear him over the sound of his own pounding heart as his body desperately attempts to stave off death.

It strikes him that he's perhaps the only man of sound mind in the world who sees his death coming, and thinks, _can we just get this over with? I've got things to do._

John is running towards him as the darkness closes in, and Captain Jack Harkness dies.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I'm beginning to realize that the stories in this universe are too timey-wimey for really clear spoiler warnings. I don't anticipate any spoilers past season 5 for Supernatural, and season 4 of Doctor Who, and for Torchwood there's only Jack's background; he hasn't gotten to any of the events of the show yet. But I can't guarantee that that'll stay static. If I get spoiler-ific for later seasons I'll warn you.

Thanks for all the support. I really look forward to everyone's reviews, and I love love LOVE the speculation! Without further ado, here's Jack about to gain a greater appreciation for the things the Winchesters have to face.

* * *

When Jack comes back to life, it is dark.

He succumbs to his back-from-the-dead gasp, a ragged inhalation of breath that he's never quite learned how to control, and his back arches as though still fighting his fatal wound. He sits up, panting, and over his shirt his still-trembling fingers find where the not-quite-iron claws had embedded themselves in his back. It's healed almost entirely, now, still tender to the touch, but the flesh has knit itself together. He pulls his fingers away, rubbing them against each other, still surprised at the lack of blood. Even after all these years.

Once he's convinced that primitive part of his brain that never believes he's really alive again that he's all right, he begins to slowly, groggily take stock of his situation. His back hurts from the stab wound, but his stomach is also throbbing with pain. He runs a tentative hand over it, feeling fading, jagged, rough-edged scars and sucking in a pained breath through his teeth. The Black Annis hadn't stopped at killing him, evidently. _Flesh-eaters_, he thinks, disgusted. At least he hadn't been alive to feel it. He gently flexes muscles around his body, and nothing else feels too badly damaged. His head is pounding with the driving rhythm of his pulse, but it always is when he revives.

Next, his surroundings. The air is cool, and for that, at least, he's grateful. There's a faint breeze—it's really quite comfortable, which is a stark contrast to the muggy heat that he remembers in his last moments. The silence is surprisingly deep; the Black Annis must have moved on. He doesn't even hear any animal noises. The ground is soft where he lies.

No.

The _bed_ is soft. Jack moves his hands around, and the _bed_ is soft, the _pillows_ are soft, the _blanket_ is soft.

Jack's heart rate jumps as he realizes he's not at Hanging Rock.

He slips his hand up his shirt and scratches lightly at the skin around the wound, and when he pulls his hand back out, there's no dried blood beneath his nails. He touches the shirt he's wearing, finding it soft and light: not a dress shirt. It's not the one he died in. Someone washed his wounds. Someone brought him back to his motel room. Someone dressed him in a clean shirt, and put him to bed to sleep off his death.

Someone who knew he'd be coming back.

"Ah, there we are. Good morning, sleeping beauty."

Jack is on his feet in an instant, sucking in breath as his back and stomach protest, reaching for his sonic blaster. His hands fumble momentarily at the emptiness in the holster, and he looks down. No gun. The last few moments before his death come rushing back to him, and he realizes he dropped it when he was stabbed. _Dammit._

Instead of panicking he decides to focus on the opposite side of the room, where a man is sitting, watching him. A small smile plays on the stranger's face, and he looks for all the world like it was _his_ motel room that _Jack_ was intruding on. "I'm glad to see you're up. Can't be wasting the day away, Captain Harkness, not when you have so much work to do."

Jack doesn't move, but forces himself to smile as though he is absolutely nonplussed by his guest. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," he says. "Are you the one who brought me here?"

The stranger nods. "The Black Annis had torn you up pretty good," he says. "But luckily you were all in one piece, so I didn't have to carry you back in bags."

Jack feels cold, but ignores it, and asks, "Can I know the name of my rescuer?"

The stranger stands up and crosses the room, his stride smooth and elegant. He's middle-aged, Caucasian, male. A few inches shorter than Jack, and of average build. He's wearing jeans and layered shirts and a jacket—kind of like John Winchester, actually. His dark shirt is stained darker with blood. Jack's blood, he realizes with a start. The wound inflicted by the Black Annis was brutal, and if this man brought him back to the motel, dragged him out of Hanging Rock, he was lucky to not be saturated.

Wait.

_John_.

"John," Jack says, panic rising in his aching chest, and the man holds up a hand, cutting off his imminent question. He smiles indulgently, as though touched by Jack's concern.

"Winchester took your little air horn and got away while most of the Black Annis were busy trying to make you dinner," he says. "He wasn't followed. If it makes you feel better, he did seem torn about leaving you. But you were good and dead, Captain."

"Did he see me...come back?" Jack asks.

The man shook his head. "No. Your secret is safe." He chuckles. "But as to the question you keep asking, and then interrupting me before I can answer." He holds his hand out, and says, "You can call me Azazel."

Jack takes the man's hand, gripping it tight. The hand is slightly cold, slightly clammy, thoroughly unpleasant, but this is his savior, after all. He should be grateful. "Thanks for your help," he says. "Waking up back there wouldn't have been pleasant." A cold churning in the pit of his stomach is warning him about something, but he's tired, and in pain, and doesn't have the time or the energy to parse it.

So instead, he just takes his hand back and sticks both in his pockets, and says, "But I know there's no such thing as a free lunch. Why'd you bring me back? How did you know I wasn't dead?" He pauses, considering. "Permanently dead, anyway," he amends.

Azazel laughs softly. "You can't live on this planet for a century and a half without being noticed, Captain," he says. "I have agents in Cardiff. And I know you're here about the Winchester boys."

Jack wishes his head was clear enough for him to pay more attention to that cold churning. "The Winchester boys?" he echoes, playing dumb while knowing that it is pointless. Azazel saw him save John. There's no pretending he isn't connected to the Winchesters.

But when Azazel pulls out the Doctor's letter, Jack feels a surge of anger. "You were out for a couple of hours," Azazel says, "so I did some light reading."

Jack grabs the letter out of Azazel's hand, irrationally furious that the stranger had handled it, and at the same time experiencing a spike of fear. The last time someone he didn't know had found out that he was connected to the Doctor, he'd been killed over and over again for information that he not only _wouldn't_ provide, but _couldn't_ provide. "Who are you?" he demands.

It's then that his head clears enough to notice the eyes.

The illumination from the street light outside the window hits Azazel's face at the right angle, and through the darkness Jack can see the sheen of yellow. Not _gold_. Not _hazel_. Yellow. So not human, then. Not human at all. His hands tighten around the letter.

Azazel shrugs, grinning, his arms spread wide. "The jig, I suppose, she is up," he says casually. "Do you know who I am, now?"

"Not a human," Jack replies. "But the body, that's human. So non- or semi-corporeal. And the Doctor told me that the demons are after the Winchesters and vice-versa. So that's what I'm going to guess. How'd I do?"

Azazel smirks, and raises his hands to clap slowly, sarcastically. "Very good, Captain. Bravo."

"So why the hell did you bring me back from Hanging Rock?" Jack demands. "Definitely no free lunch with demons. What do you want from me?"

Azazel's expression turns thoughtful, and he walks past Jack to sit on the edge of the bed. "I think you misunderstand me," he says. "We're not working at cross-purposes, here."

"Oh, really," Jack snaps, following him carefully with his eyes. "You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe."

Azazel gestures to the letter that Jack is gripping a little too tight. "Your Doctor asked you to make sure the Winchesters don't die on May second, 1994. I don't want the boys to die, either."

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, ignoring the flare of pain that ignites through his back and abdomen. "Sure. You're just a real humanitarian. Why in the wide universe should I believe you would care about whether or not the Winchesters survive? After everything, you don't _want_ them dead?"

Azazel shakes his head, clicking his tongue as though disappointed that Jack isn't understanding. It makes Jack angrier than he can say, but he's unarmed. He curses himself for not memorizing the exorcism that the Doctor wrote for him in the letter (for not _quite_ believing that he'd need it; for wondering if the Doctor was pulling his chain, calling back to old stories from the Time War about escapees burying themselves in ancient primitive cultures on faraway planets). "For a time-traveler, you are just _awfully_ short-sighted. We think...long-term, shall we say. You don't need to worry about my motivations, Captain. Just know that I'm on your side."

Jack folds his arms, squaring his shoulders and planting himself in a stance that suggests more confidence than he feels. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but I _am_ going to worry about it," he says. "And if you think I'm just going to hand the boys over after the job is done, you're stupider than most of your people. If I have to stick around for _years_ to protect them, I will." He shrugs casually. "Not like I've got an expiration date."

Azazel stands up from the bed and walks up to Jack, putting a hand on his shoulder. Jack doesn't budge, doesn't give an inch, as much as he has to work to suppress a shudder at the contact. "Oh Captain, my Captain," the demon says, "I have no use for the Winchester boys. Not yet. When I do, they will come to me of their own accord. I really have no ulterior motive, other than keeping them alive to adulthood, when I can use them. Whether or not you like that, we both want them to survive their childhood. Until then, I'll take the allies I can get. As they say, it takes a village to raise a child. It'll take a small _army_ keep the Winchester brats alive long enough to be raised."

He moves past Jack, back to the chair he was sitting on when Jack revived. Jack watches him suspiciously as Azazel crouches and pulls something off of the ground. It's sharp, metallic—definitely weaponry. He tenses, and Azazel shakes his head when he sees it. "Not for you, Harkness. Not that way, at any rate." He moves back towards Jack, the weapon carefully laid on top of his open palms in the least threatening way one can wield a dagger. Because it is a dagger—long, tapered, and silver, elegant but brutal, like no weapon Jack has seen before.

"What's this supposed to be?" Jack asks, eyeing it warily. He reaches a hand out for it, and touches it lightly. It's cold against his hand, and there's something _wrong_ with it. His first, inexplicable impression of it is that it exists in too many places at once. If only he'd brought more tech, he could have figured out what it was. He narrows his eyes at the dagger, then at Azazel. "What is this?" he repeats.

Azazel gazes at the dagger, a light akin to awe in his sickly yellow eyes, and there is nothing that Jack likes about that expression. "A very special weapon, designed to kill a creature you've never encountered before," he says. "Your Doctor should have guessed they'd be involved, but somehow didn't. Maybe wishful thinking."

Jack watches Azazel for a long moment, and then takes the dagger from him, carefully but quickly. "This'll kill the Black Annis?" he asks, turning it over in his hands. It's almost a vibration, the wrongness. A struggle.

Azazel laughs, and Jack glares at him. "Well, possibly," the demon says, "if you aim right. But not any better or with a greater success rate than any other dagger. No, this is for their masters."

_There's a chance they might not be working alone._ Jack recalls the letter, but also the Doctor's admonishment that he should avoid lethal force if at all possible. And in the Doctor's mind, it's almost always possible. While Jack doesn't agree, the fact that in this matter,Azazel and the Doctor stand opposed makes him want to do whatever the Doctor said. "I appreciate the gesture, which I'm sure doesn't come without strings attached, but I'm not looking to _kill_ anything, here."

That merits another laugh, this one a little darker, quieter. "That's cute," Azazel says. "But whether or not you're _looking_ to kill anything, things are definitely looking to kill _you_, and those boys you're charged with. You want the firepower necessary to make a credible threat, or not?"

Jack grips the dagger, and it thrums in his hand, the heat from which doesn't seem to have warmed the dagger at all. "What is this supposed to kill?" he asks, disconcerted by the weapon. He wants to put it down. He doesn't want to put it down where Azazel can arm himself again.

Azazel shakes his head. "You'd never believe me, even with your background," he says. "Suffice it to say that you'll know it when you see it."

"I'm pretty credulous," Jack says. "Try me."

Azazel puts his hand over the dagger, and Jack grips it. But the demon doesn't try to take it, instead wrapping tightening his own grip over Jack's hand. "You keep this with you," he says. "Because when you kill the Black Annis, their masters will come for your head. And I want you to protect those boys as much as your Doctor does." He grins at Jack, an unpleasant, toothy thing. "Doesn't that just make you want to stab 'em yourself?"

Jack pulls his hand away, disgusted, but refuses to back away. "I want you gone," he says. "I don't know if I believe that this thing is going to do me any good, and I don't care, right now. I want you out of this room. And I want you to stay away from the Winchesters."

Azazel's hand shoots out and grips Jack's chin, pulling his face close. But Jack is ready for him, and as soon as he completes the motion, the dagger is directly against the demon's heart. Azazel glances down at it, and nods, the ghost of a smile on his face. "It won't kill me," he says.

"It'll kill the poor human you're possessing," Jack counters. "And you'll be back to square one, without a body. So are you going to let me go, or are you going to let _him_ go?"

The moment in which Azazel considers his options seems eternal. Jack's traitorous heart is racing, but he stays perfectly still. One steady hand grips the dagger, the other presses flat against the butt of the weapon, ready to plunge it into Azazel's heart if he needs to. He meets Azazel's eyes, unmoving.

The smile widening on his face, Azazel removes his hand. Jack tilts his head back, and pulls the dagger away. He does his best to hide it, but he breathes a little easier now that the demon has released him. "Good choice," he says, knowing he's pressing his luck.

Azazel shakes a finger at him with a fond look, like some gruff father in an old sitcom. Jack is taken aback, and frowns. "I like you," the demon says. "You've got guts. And in some circumstances I'd show them to you, maybe strangle you with them, but I need you, Captain Jack Harkness."

"Yeah?" Jack challenges. "And why is that?"

"Because I can't afford to show myself to the Winchesters," Azazel replies. "You, on the other hand, you're so _human_. They might not like you, but they're not likely to try to kill you. John's got this little thing about killing humans."

Jack scoffs, cocking an eyebrow. "Yeah? So he's less likely to kill me than he is to kill you? He saw me _die_. If he sees me again, what's he going to think? Not that I'm just some fellow human fighting the good fight, that's for sure."

Azazel shrugs. "Your problem, cowboy, not mine," he says, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "You're the one who wasn't keeping an eye on your back when fighting with monsters with iron claws."

"Not _exactly _iron," Jack mutters.

"Close enough," Azazel says, nonplussed. "You should have been more careful, if you didn't want your ace in the hole revealed before it was necessary. That's not my fault. All _I_ did was save your bacon."

"If we're going to be technical, all you did was _move_ it," Jack says nastily. "I would've come back with or without your help."

Azazel shakes his head. "You humans really are ungrateful little maggots," he says, without the heat that his words imply. "I'm going to go now, before you decide to get creative with that dagger, but I'll be around."

"I'm warning you to keep away from the Winchesters," Jack begins, but Azazel waves his hand dismissively.

"I'm not going to hurt your precious Hunters," he says. "Like I said. I have no use for them dead, not now. I want them alive as much as you do. Probably more, actually. So you do your job, Captain, and I'll stay out of your way."

"Yeah," Jack says. "You do that."

Azazel holds up his hands, and starts out the door. Jack catches his arm as he passes, and Azazel stares at him, startles.

"And in case you're considering double-crossing me," Jack says quietly, "you ought to know that _my Doctor_, as you keep calling him, is a Time Lord. As in, the one who ended the Time War. As in the one who killed the people who killed your people. He is a man with _very_ little to lose. I'm here on his business. And you don't want to get him angry."

Azazel is still for a moment, studying Jack as he releases the demon's arm. Then a slow smile spreads across Azazel's face, and he pats Jack on the cheek. "Oh, aren't you just _precious_," he says. "I'm fully aware of who your boss is. And I'm sure he'd be touched by your vote of confidence." He lowers his voice and leans in, nearly touching his forehead to Jack's face as he says, "Don't underestimate us, boy. I'm suffering you to live now because you're useful."

"And because I can't die," Jack adds tightly.

"I'm sure we could find a loophole to that," Azazel replies. "As soon as you cease being useful, you're fair game. I wouldn't piss me off, if I were you."

Jack pats Azazel on the shoulder, resisting the urge to turn his open hand into a fist instead. "Good thing you're not me, then." He walks to the door and opens it, gesturing grandly out of it for Azazel to leave.

Azazel salutes with two fingers pressed together, and leaves. Jack watches as he goes, not closing the door until the demon is out of sight—and well away from room twenty-six.

Once Azazel is gone, Jack closes the door and looks down at the dagger still in his hand. He wishes the Doctor were here to tell him what it was, because there's no way he wouldn't know.

The dagger begins to feel heavy in his hand, and the adrenaline that has been rushing through his system since he woke begins to fade. He staggers to his bed and sits down, placing the dagger on the lamp stand. He grips his back as the pain swells and crests. It was a bad wound, and one he's paying for in energy and in time. He has neither to spare.

But he can hardly keep his eyes open, and he admits to himself that he's no good to the Winchesters if he's exhausted. John's not stupid enough to go after the Black Annis again until it's light outside, and the boys are technically not in danger from them, not yet. The Doctor said that if the timeline unfolds as it's set to, without his interference, the boys die on May second. He still has a full twenty-four hours until it's May second.

Jack is still arguing with himself over whether or not to keep working as he falls asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: This chapter's a little short, but I promise I'll have a longer one next time; I'll be out of town for a couple of days and didn't want to leave everybody with four days and no update. Jack's just digging himself a little deeper in this scene...

* * *

The boys are supposed to be dead by noon on May second, 1994.

It is currently seven in the morning on Sunday, May first, 1994.

Thirty-five hours to go.

Jack is already up and has been for several hours, having procured a car from a local rental place in case it becomes necessary. He's not walking to Hanging Rock again, that's for sure; he doesn't have an extra hour to waste. The car is also a useful stake-out point, from which he can see when the Winchester boys leave for breakfast.

He can't pretend that he doesn't feel like the kind of person who ought to be passing out cards to warn people about his presence as he sits in his car in the car park, waiting for two young boys to exit their motel room so he can follow them. But he's better than their alternative guardian, and as that thought passes through his mind he glances down at the silver dagger in the passenger's seat. Definitely still there, which, distressingly, means that last night actually happened.

It's not like he could deny it anyway, given that he still has some raised skin on his stomach where the shredded flesh is still healing. It doesn't hurt anymore, at least. But he was killed by the Black Annis and brought back to his motel by a demon. The Doctor hadn't put _that_ possibility in the letter, Jack thinks grimly.

Jack's not a fool and he's not naïve. He has no illusions that Azazel is looking out for anyone but himself, and he has no illusions that he is a friend to the Winchester boys. He said he had no use for them _yet_, which obviously means that he has use for them in the future. He can't see how using the weapon, if it should come down to it, could hurt, but demons are tricky. Well. He's always heard they are. Until last night he wasn't one hundred percent convinced that they truly existed.

He's drawn out of his reverie as the door to room twenty-six opens, and Dean Winchester steps out. Jack doesn't see a gun, but the jacket that Dean is wearing despite the heat is covering where it's most likely that he tucked it in his jeans—if the boy hides his gun where his father does, at any rate. And the Doctor did mention that Dean tries to imitate his father as much as possible, so it's not an unreasonable guess.

Dean stands in the doorway, and Jack can make out frustrated body language as he leans back in and shouts something. A moment later, Sam comes stumbling out of the room, and Dean closes and locks the door behind them. Sam follows close on his brother's heels, glancing around nervously. Jack is for a moment afraid that the boy's seen him, but Sam's eyes slide right past the car without stopping. Jack releases a breath.

The boys take off down the road, and Jack figures out where they're going pretty easily. Not a lot of diners in this town to pick from. He turns on the car when they're out of earshot, and drives past them, arriving at the diner first.

He picks a booth, set back a bit, but still central enough that if he's listening he'll be able to hear any conversations he needs to pay attention to. The waitress comes, and he orders a water and salad to keep her placated. And he waits.

It's not ten minutes later that Dean and Sam get to the diner, bickering quietly. Dean's shoulders are tight, he's cracking his knuckles rhythmically, but he's hiding his tension as much as he can, shoving his little brother fondly and giving the closest he can to an easy grin when the younger boy says something to him. Something about the façade stings Jack—hits him right where it hurts. He can see the anxiety in Dean's posture, but he's doing everything in his power to make sure he doesn't worry his brother with it.

For his own part, Sam looks more relaxed than he did in the car park. He stays very close to his brother, hovering inches away from him at all times until the waitress seats them.

Again Jack holds his breath as the waitress leads them to the booth _right behind his_, but the boys don't notice anything as they slip into the seats. He can't see them anymore, but he can hear them, clear as day.

"Thanks," Dean says, and the waitress walks away. Jack hears the boys settling into the booth.

"Dad seemed pretty upset last night," Sam says, his voice uncertain.

It takes Dean a moment to respond. "I thought you were asleep."

Sam's shirt scratches against the back of the booth seat as he shrugs. "I woke up."

Another moment passes. "He...the hunt didn't go too great."

"He looked okay this morning," Sam says, and his tone is alarmed and full of worry. "Did he get hurt? He didn't look like he got hurt. Is he okay?"

"Hey, hey, Sammy," Dean scolds, shushing his brother. "Come on. Chill out."

"Sorry," Sam says, not sounding terribly sorry at all. "But what happened?"

There is a bright note of curiosity in Sam's voice, and it evidently gives Dean pause as much as it does Jack. "Apparently some civilian got in the way," Dean says, and Jack hears both disgust and sadness in his voice. Sadness at Jack's own death, he realizes with a wry smile. "He found the nest but the Black Annis took out the civilian. Dad had to retreat."

Sam whistles, which Jack thinks is a weird reaction. "Oh. No wonder Dad was upset."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "He doesn't know where this guy came from but there was something weird about him, Dad thinks. Might be a whole new can of worms, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam breaths. Then a quick shift of position. "Did you feel something?"

Dean's response is sharp and quick. "Like what?"

Sam settles back down into his seat. "I don't know," he mutters. "Just like, something _weird_."

Dean laughs, dry and without much true humor. "You're gonna have to be more specific than that, Sammy," he says.

"I don't know, never mind," Sam says, sounding a little grumpy.

The waitress takes their drink orders, and Dean orders for both of them: two waters, and two orders of pancakes and eggs. She stops at Jack's table, glancing at him with a smile. "You need anything, hon?" she asks.

Jack looks up at her, smiles, and shakes his head. She looks a bit put out, but leaves him alone, and that's what he really needs. If he talks, Dean is going to recognize his voice. Silence is suspicious enough as it is, but to talk and remove any doubt isn't going to end well at all.

Once the waitress is well gone, Dean asks, his voice quieter, "Have you seen that guy again?"

_Awkward_, Jack thinks briefly.

"Nope," says Sam. "Not since yesterday. Have you?"

"Just outside," Dean replies. "He didn't do anything. I don't know, man, maybe we're for once seeing things."

Another rustling of fabric as Sam shrugs. "Maybe."

Dean sighs. "But how likely is that."

"Not," Sam suggests.

"And you didn't like him," Dean adds.

There's a long pause after that, and Jack finds himself pressing his back into the seat of the booth to hear what Sam has to say. The kid did react extremely strangely to him—he'd done literally nothing, and yet the look of _revulsion_ on Sam's face was stunning. "I don't know, Dean," Sam says for the third time. "He just...I don't know. I felt weird. He felt weird."

"Like, weird like not human?" Dean asks, extremely softly.

"No," Sam says. "Well, maybe. But he just...he felt..._wrong_. Like he's not supposed to be here. Like he's not supposed to be anywhere."

Jack frowned. Sam thinks he felt wrong. Could it be the artron energy? It's mostly faded after all these years but he knows it still clings to him, like a film, like an oil slick on his skin. After all the time traveling he's done it'll never really be gone, not fully. He doesn't know why on Earth the boy would be sensitive to artron energy, but if he is, then Jack's not safe being this close to them.

It's a little late to move now, though.

Could this have something to do with what the boys are important for in the future? If they've caught the attention of the Doctor as adults, maybe it's because Sam has some connection to the Vortex. He'd wonder if the kid was fully human, but the Doctor would have said something if he wasn't, just in case of a situation requiring first aid if nothing else. Sensitive to the Vortex, to artron energy...it doesn't make any sense, not from a normal, twentieth-century human boy.

Then again, this is a case from the Doctor. _Making sense_ is never guaranteed, and hardly likely.

"Well, you don't have to worry about him, okay?" Dean says. "Dad's gonna take care of the hunt today, and we're gonna be out of here."

Sam sighs deeply, a sound of age and weariness so far out of sync with his years that it strikes Jack. "Yeah," he says. "I guess so."

Jack can hear the frown in Dean's voice as the older boy says, "What? You sound bummed."

"It's just..." Sam hesitates, then plows forward. "It's just that the school year's almost over, you know? I don't want to get held back."

Dean laughs. "Whatever, Sammy. They'd never hold you back. You're way too smart for that."

The waitress comes back by with three plates on her tray. She places Jack's salad in front of him, and he flashes her an appreciative smile, staying silent. "Here you go," she says curtly, obviously offended by his laconic demeanor. She turns quickly on her heel and puts the other plates down on the Winchester's table. "And here you go, boys," she says, her voice suddenly warm. "Anything else I can get for you?"

It takes Dean a beat to respond, and Jack winces.

"No ma'am," he says, finally. "No, ma'am, we're fine." The waitress nods, smiling at Sam, and turns to go.

The boys finish their meal in silence.

They pay their ticket and leave. Jack gives them five minutes, and then does the same.

He walks out into the muggy heat, and is making his way to his car when he hears a disappointingly familiar sound behind him.

He doesn't turn, but sighs and puts his hands where Dean Winchester can see them. "I'm not armed," he says quietly.

"I am," Dean hisses, pressing the barrel of his gun to the small of Jack's back. "Move."

Jack does as Dean says, and Dean walks him down into an alley. Dean forces him against the wall, and quickly pats him down. Finding no weapons, just as he said, the kid steps back and lets Jack turn to face him.

"What the hell do you want with me and my brother?" he demands, his hand alarmingly steady on the gun.

"I guess you wouldn't buy _there's not many choices for breakfast in this town_," Jack says lightly. Dean scowls at him.

"Don't play games with me," he warns. "I know how to use this."

"I have no doubt," Jack says.

The kid does know how to handle a weapon. But he's only been handling one for, tops, eleven years.

Jack's had ten times that in immortality alone to perfect his fighting, and so when ten seconds later Dean Winchester is disarmed, it's not a comment on the boy's skill.

Jack holds the gun up, holding his other hand out in a gesture of harmlessness. "Woah woah woah, kid, I don't want to hurt you," he says.

"Yeah?" Dean scoffs, but Jack sees the glimmer of terror in his eyes as his gaze flicks from Jack's face to the gun. Notices the quickening of the boy's breath, the way his hands clench and unclench. "Then why are you following us?"

"I'm trying to help you," Jack insists. "Believe me. I know you don't have a reason to, but if I was going to hurt you, wouldn't I have already tried?"

Dean doesn't look convinced in the slightest. "Give me my gun back," he demands.

Jack sighs, and brings the gun down, but jerks it away as Dean reaches for it. "Hang on, now," he says. "You don't have a reason to trust me, but I don't have a reason to trust you, either." He empties the gun of its bullets, sticks them in his pocket, and only then hands the weapon back to Dean. The kid looks infuriated, but takes the gun back, checking it as though Jack did something to it.

Then Dean looks up and meets Jack's eyes, and the fire in his expression takes the time traveler aback for a moment. He takes a step closer, doing his best to be intimidating despite his obvious fear, and says, "If you hurt my brother, if you put a damn _hand_ on him, I will kill you slowly. That is a promise. And I live up to my promises."

Jack holds his gaze, nodding solemnly. "I know," he says. "I believe you. And I'm not here to hurt your brother, or you, or anyone. I wish I could explain things more clearly but I can't. We're stuck with each other."

"We're not stuck if I shoot you," Dean says.

"You can't shoot me without bullets," Jack counters.

"I know where you're staying," Dean shoots back.

Jack stifles a laugh. The kid has nothing if not guts. "I know where _you're_ staying," he says, "and I'm the one with a grown-up credit card who can change motels if need be."

"There's only a handful in town," Dean says. "I could find you if you moved."

"You are something else," Jack says, a touch of admiration in his voice. He folds his arms and grins, but that grin fades as he notices that Dean isn't meeting his eyes anymore.

He's looking down at Jack's boots. Jack follows his eyeline, and sees the mud caked all over the soles, toes, and heels. Jack stifles a curse. _Damn_, but John raised his son to have a good eye.

"Out by Hanging Rocks?" Dean asks, his voice tightly controlled.

"I'm a hiker," Jack replies.

"Don't bullshit me," Dean snaps. "I want to know who you are and what you want with my family. And I want to know _now_."

Jack sighs, unfolding his arms and running his hands through his hair. "I can't tell you," he says. "I'm sorry, Dean, but I—"

"_What?_" Dean hisses, holding the gun for just a moment as though it were still loaded. Jack sucks in a regretful breath, but it's too late. "How the _hell_ did you know my name?"

Jack puts his hands back out, trying to seem as innocuous as possible. "Look, kid—"

"I don't want to hear it," Dean says. "Stay away from me. Stay away from my dad. And you sure as _hell_ stay away from my brother. I know your kind like kids, but I know how to kill you."

Jack blinks.

His mouth attempts a couple of words, but comes up blank, until he finally settles on, "Huh?"

"My dad didn't bring us all the way out here to hunt your nest without prepping us," Dean says, his voice full of angry pride.

It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for Dean to think he's a Black Annis. Not the _best_ thing in the world, either, but not the worst. But Jack doesn't think of that as he says, "I'm not a Black Annis, Dean. No blue skin, no iron claws."

Dean stills, staring at him. His eyes narrow. "So you're not a Black Annis, but you know my name, and you know what my dad came out here to hunt," he says.

"Dean—"

As Jack takes a step towards him, Dean's arm comes around with the gun and clocks Jack square on his temple. He staggers a step back, reeling in pain, and can barely make it out as Dean takes off running.

The kid has a good arm.

The kid has sense.

The kid is going to get himself and his brother killed, so through the foggy haze of his throbbing head, Jack stumbles back to his car and takes off towards the motel.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: And something a little longer!

I just wanted to take a second to thank _DaughterofLuthien_ and _Illucida_ for their unwavering support for this series. This stuff gets out on time because of you guys. You're the best.

So enjoy...because poor Jack's not going to.

* * *

Jack isn't panicking.

He's not.

Panicking would be a waste of the (_rapidly dwindling amount of_) time he has left to find and protect the Winchester boys, and Jack is not the type of man who wastes time.

Jack is not the type of man who panics.

If he was, though, he probably would be, just now.

He lost the boys really quickly after leaving the diner. In his defense Dean had taken a really good swing at him, and his head is still throbbing and his vision had been blurry for a moment, but he heals fast and that hadn't incapacitated him for long. It's like they'd vanished.

He doesn't know what's in Dean's head, or where he's likely to go. He knows the boy's motivation had been solely to get his brother away from Jack—which is understandable, if Jack is going to be fair. So he went to the motel first, but they weren't there. It's not that they were lying low, either. He would have been able to tell. He _certainly_ would have been able to tell when he picked the lock to the room and found it empty. He searched under the beds, in closets, behind shower curtains, anywhere two scared boys might hide. The Winchesters' car wasn't in the car park, but it hadn't been when they went to breakfast, either. John was out somewhere—hopefully not but almost certainly at Hanging Rock, trying his luck again with the Black Annis. At least this time he had the sonic blaster, and he'd seen both its efficacy and its limitations.

Jack's been driving around town for two hours, searching desperately. In his hundred and twenty years stuck on Earth, he's hunted down and neutralized countless threats to the human race: aliens who've evaded capture by everyone else. Torchwood only comes in on desperate cases, and he's handled some bad ones. So how on _Earth_ can a fifteen-year-old and a ten-year-old manage to elude him?

He can't go to the police. For one thing, he doesn't want to get involved with the authorities here. A town like this wouldn't have anyone with sufficient rank to know that Torchwood exists, much less to know why being from Torchwood should give him clearance to do whatever the hell it is he wants to do, no questions asked. He doesn't have time to fight with red tape and bureaucracy. And secondly, he can't imagine that given the life that the Winchesters lead, they're too keen on the police, either. The boys wouldn't be careless enough to be found by the police if Jack couldn't find them.

Driving down the main drag of Romney for what feels like the thousandth time, Jack slams his hand down on the steering wheel. It's eleven o'clock. Twenty-five hours until the paradox, which is what he's calling it, because it sounds better than _twenty-five hours until I either do my job or let two innocent boys die, alone and afraid, at the hands of something that it's my job to protect humans from, and fail the Doctor._

Yeah. Paradox sounds a lot better.

Jack swings his car back into the motel lot, slamming the door after he exits. He storms back up to room twenty-six, banging on the door with his fist in hopeless anger. "Dean!" he shouts, knowing there's no one inside to hear him. "Sam! Open the door!"

Nothing, of course.

He slams his fist against the door one last time, letting it lay against the wood. He leans his forehead against his hand and closes his eyes, taking a few breaths to calm himself.

"Not exactly the ideal time for a nap, Captain."

He takes pride in the fact that he doesn't jump, despite the fact that there's no way he missed Azazel's approach. The demon just appeared behind him. That idea frightens him, just a little bit.

Jack turns around, facing Azazel with a tightly-controlled expression of contained fury. "Do you happen to know," he asks, so slowly, "where the hell the Winchester boys are?"

Azazel clicks his tongue. "Temper, temper," he chides. "You'll never get anywhere in life with that attitude."

Jack shifts slightly, settling in his stance. He grits his teeth to keep from saying anything too stupid. "You're the one who turned this situation into me doing a favor for you," he says. It's not what he wants to say, but it's what he says. "And now you're not going to help me? I've been looking for them for _hours_."

"When a Winchester doesn't want to be found, it's hard to find him," Azazel agrees placidly.

Jack lowers his head for just a moment. He knows it's clichéd and a little silly to count to ten, but he does. He doesn't have time for a fight, and he doesn't have the weaponry to win it even if he started it. "Okay," he says, his voice quiet and tense. "Let's try this again. We're not working at cross-purposes, right?"

"Right," Azazel replies brightly.

"So I want what you want, right now," Jack continues. "Furthermore, I'm the field agent here, so I'm the only one who can get what we both want done, done. With me?"

"Every step," Azazel says.

"So what _I _need from _you_," Jack says with a patience he doesn't feel, "is the location of the Winchester boys, because I know that your people have more sensory functions than mine, and that you can find them more easily than I can. Can you help me with that?"

Azazel studies him for a moment, those milky yellow eyes boring into him, and Jack can't help but feel a little disgusted. He doesn't like to think of himself as prejudiced, but he's heard stories of the demons. He'd thought they were only stories—so much of what happened during the Time War was muddled, fractured, or erased completely that any tale from that era is unreliable at best and usually an outright fabrication. But he'd heard some stories from the Doctor, huddled with Rose in the library on the TARDIS like kids at story-time. Rose had asked about the truth behind various mythical creatures in Earth literature, and demons had come up. The demons were ruthless and blood-thirsty, the Doctor told them; natural allies to the Daleks. The look in his eyes as he spoke of them was cold and angry, and Jack shudders a little at the memory of it. For a species to incite that kind of fury in the Doctor at the mention of their name, they aren't anything to underestimate.

"I wish I could, Captain," Azazel says, finally, "but I don't know where the brats are, either."

Jack groans, the knot of hope that had dared to form in his chest unraveling.

"But I do have a tip for you," the demon continues. "If you're going to kill the Black Annis before they kill the boys, I'd recommend getting to it now. Because Winchester the elder is en route to the bower to try to take them out with your little toy."

Jack looks up sharply at his fears being confirmed. "With the blaster?" he cries. Azazel nods with a little smile. Evidently that's the reaction he was looking for. "There's no way that'll kill them, not alone."

"I know that, and _you_ know that," Azazel says, poking Jack in the chest with a sharp finger, "but Johnny boy doesn't."

Jack pulls back at the contact, but is too distracted to make a big deal of it. He rushes into his own room, digging through his backpack for his weapons.

_The Doctor would be so disappointed, _part of him whispers.

_The Doctor's not here, _the other part retorts. _The Doctor said to protect the Winchesters. I'm going to protect the Winchesters._

He picks up a pistol and some ammo, and, thinking better of going in under-armed, he grabs his compact laser deluxe. He shoves the pistol in the holster where his sonic blaster ought to be, and he tucks the laser in his pocket. (It's such a good size for such a powerful weapon.) He walks back outside, and strides right past Azazel.

The demon is surprised, Jack can tell, and hurries after him. "Where are you going?" he demands.

Jack doesn't turn around, but swings into his rental car and rolls down the window once the engine has started. "I'm going back to Hanging Rock," he says, "just like you want me to. Why, did you want to come with?"

Azazel narrows his eyes. "No, you'll be fine on your own," he says. "Get rid of them this time, Harkness, and you don't have time to die again."

"Wasn't planning on it," Jack shouts over the sound of the revving engine as he peels out of the car park, leaving a confused and irritated demon in his dust.

As he drives along the highway he wonders if angering Azazel is necessarily the best idea he could have had, but at this point, he doesn't really care to answer himself. Maybe it's not, but Jack has come a long way by making himself indispensable to people who don't particularly care for him. It's how he joined Torchwood; it's how he'll get out of this. Azazel doesn't have to like him. He just has to _need_ him.

And since Azazel's interests line up with the Doctor's, Jack is willing to play along for the time being.

He presses his foot harder against the gas pedal, willing the car to just _be_ at Hanging Rock already. He has the boys to find, still, once he's done making sure their father doesn't get himself eaten by haemovores after trying to kill them—_kill them_, of all the stupid things—with nothing but a sonic blaster. A sonic blaster that's almost certainly in need of a tune-up after his last incident at Hanging Rock. Dropping an instrument that delicate rarely does anything good for it, and John has no idea how to use the thing in the first place. The stupid man's more likely to kill himself with a malfunctioning blaster than he is to do any damage to the Black Annis. The stupid, desperate man.

He wonders, his aggravation fading, how John does it.

How he leaves his boys in town day after day while he runs off after monsters. Or even _why_. He knows that John has some revenge issues to work out, but only against the demon that killed his wife. The rest of it...is there just nothing left of the man but revenge? What about his duty to his sons?

His sons. Jack is starting to understand, slowly, how these boys end up being important enough to the Doctor that he's been sent to save them. Not the particulars, of course, but there was something in Dean's eyes when he was facing off with Jack in the alley, something deep and pure past the fear and the fury. Something that the Doctor would latch on to—something that proved that the boy was fixable. Because Jack is sure that the Doctor wouldn't be thrilled with the pistol-whipping, and that he'd count that attitude as something to fix. Dean would be a project that the Doctor would leap at. Not to mention little Sam, with his artron sensitivity or whatever it was that made Jack bother him so much.

But to leave those boys, alone and vulnerable...

Jack can't imagine it.

He really can't.

The tires of the rental squeal in protest as he pulls into the car park at Hanging Rock. He jumps out of the car and, running past a friendly tour guide who asks if she can help him (turning to her, running backwards for a moment, and flashing her his signature grin while saying "thanks for the offer but gotta run!"), makes his way at top speed towards where he knows the bower to be. He's leaving a trail that any idiot civilian could follow, but he doesn't care, because he's not going to let John Winchester die, and if something follows him then so be it. He doesn't have time to waste, but he can deal with dying again. John, on the other hand, can't.

He nearly slips in the mud a few times, but manages to skid to a halt right before the turn that leads to the bower. He braces himself against the cliff, deciding abruptly that running in without a plan or even an assessment of the situation is an idea that will only lead to _everybody_ dying instead of just him. He's breathing heavily, but fights to control it. It won't do for him to be heard.

He peers around the corner. John is there, in front of the sleeping Black Annis. He's about to pull the trigger. He's about to wake them up.

Jack freezes.

There's nothing he can do that won't wake up the Black Annis and startle John at the same time—nothing he can do that won't make the situation worse. Two minutes, tops. If he'd gotten there two minutes earlier he could've stopped John. Used to be, as long as he hadn't interfered yet, he could have just _tried again_. But then his vortex manipulator broke and he was _stranded_ and now John is going to wake the Black Annis and Jack won't—

He won't have a choice.

He's going to have to kill them.

He pulls his compact laser deluxe out of his pocket as John pulls the trigger on the blaster.

The Black Annis begin to shriek as soon as the blaster activates, falling from the bower one by one and beginning to crawl towards John, their eyes filled with malice and pain. One clutches at its ears, but howls and throws itself at the Hunter. John braces himself for the impact, keeping his finger firmly on the trigger.

"John!" Jack cries, and the Black Annis jerks back, halting its progress and staring at him. John's face loses all color as he realized who is shouting his name. He's so startled that his wide eyes are on Jack alone, even though it means taking his eyes off of the Black Annis altogether. His eyes are still on Jack as the ex-Time Agent orders, "Get down, John."

John is stunned enough to just obey, and over his head Jack fires his laser and the Black Annis is thrown back several yards. Its cry is cut off almost immediately as the laser tears through its head, destroying its brain and, Jack hopes, granting it a quick death. The body is flung against a tree with a sickening _crack_ and falls to the ground.

The other Black Annis scramble to their fallen comrade, and Jack feels a stab of regret. He wishes it didn't have to be like this. But the integrity of this timeline is more important than any one creature's life.

"Jack," John breathes, and drops the sonic blaster, pulling out his pistol and aiming it at Jack. "You're dead."

"Was," Jack corrects, eyeing the pistol warily. "You don't have time for this. You need to get out of here. That blaster won't kill them, won't even come close."

"What about you?" John asks, his voice ragged. "What'll kill _you_? What _are_ you?"

Simultaneous surges of anger and hurt rise in Jack, and he tries to force both down. John is frightened. So was Jack, when he realized what he had become. It's a natural reaction. It's not an insult. Especially given who John is, what John does. Doesn't make it any less hard to have the man he just saved pointing a gun at his chest as if it would do him any good. "Not now," Jack says.

"If I shoot you, will it kill you?" John shouts.

"Yes!" Jack cries, and John falters. "Yes, all right? Yes! Now get out of here before—" He breaks off, raising his laser and aiming over John's shoulder as one of the Black Annis runs towards the Hunter for its revenge.

His aim is slightly off and he hits the Black Annis in the shoulder rather than in the head. It stumbles, clutching its injured arm for a moment, but recovers in enough time to get right behind John as he turns. It slashes him deep across the chest. Jack hears a sickening _crack_ that can only be a rib, and John gasps in pain as he falls.

The next shot, Jack doesn't miss.

Time seems to slow down (as if it weren't going slow enough anyway) as he runs over and plants himself over the injured Hunter, his laser raised and firing without any further regret at the Black Annis. The Doctor's pacifism be damned, he isn't letting John die.

The Black Annis fall around him as he delivers headshot after headshot. He feels his expression settle into something cold and vicious as the creatures drop. Something he doesn't like. Something he has to do.

Once they are all down, he walks around the scene of the battle, methodically double-checking and making sure that they are dead. One is hanging on, its arms twitching spasmodically.

Jack shoots it again, and it stills.

He stands for a moment amidst the carnage, placing his laser back into his pocket with hands that he wouldn't admit out loud are trembling. Five dead. Five casualties for this rescue mission.

A groan behind him reminds him that it might still be six, if he doesn't do something.

He runs back to John and drops to a knee, quickly placing two fingers against his throat to check his pulse. John grabs his hand, staring at him and struggling to focus. "Did—are they—" he gasps.

"Dead," Jack says. "All five. They're dead. We have to get you out of here."

"Can't move," John replies softly. His breath is fast, shallow. His eyes haven't left Jack's. "C-cold."

Shock. Dammit. "You can move, John," Jack insists. "It didn't catch your back. You can move. You have to move."

John's eyes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes on Jack's. Jack feels his pulse again, and it's racing. He grits his teeth in frustration, but realizes in an instant what it'll take to get John to his feet. "We have to get back to your boys, John," he says.

John's eyes pop open. "My boys," he echoes.

Jack slips an arm around the injured man's ribcage, slinging John's arm over his shoulders. He gingerly helps the man struggle to his feet. "That's right, your boys," Jack says encouragingly. "We've got to find them, John. Right? Let's find your boys."

The Hunter is evidently not quite as far gone as Jack had thought, because while he can't fight his way out of Jack's grip, he turns an icy glare to him. "You stay away from my boys," he slurs.

Jack doesn't argue. He dips to catch the man's weight as he stumbles, and says, "Okay, John. That's fine. We need to get you help, though. You're losing blood."

"No hospital," John mutters. His eyelids are heavy and he's losing his battle with unconsciousness, Jack can tell. That's not good. He needs to keep him awake.

"Yes, the hospital, John," Jack insists, halfway because it's where he's bringing him whether or not he wants it and halfway to keep him arguing. "It got you bad."

"No hospital," John says again. "I—can't let them trace me. No paper trail."

Jack pauses, then starts walking, carefully, slowly, so that he doesn't hurt John further. "If that's all you're worried about, no problem," he says. "No trail. No using your real name. I promise."

He can feel John trying to pull away, but the Hunter knows he'll fall and only make his injuries worse if he tries too hard. So John settles for a vague sort of drifting movement away from Jack, and it strikes Jack as sad. The Hunter doesn't want his help. So long on his own, with so little back-up of any kind. No team. No companion. Just his sons, too young to have to shoulder this kind of burden. And now that he does have someone to help him, he's forgotten how to accept assistance, how to believe that someone might be on his side.

So Jack just shifts John's weight onto him a little more, an unspoken plea for trust. John lifts his head to look at him through hazy eyes, and then lowers it. Acquiescence, if not trust, will have to do for now.

The walk back to the car is slow and long. Jack realizes after a long silence that the weight on his shoulder is growing heavier. John is starting to nod off, and that won't do. At all.

Jack shrugs, and the movement jostles John enough that he inhales sharply as the pain in his chest undoubtedly flares. He looks up at Jack reproachfully. "Talk to me, John. Stay with me," Jack says.

"Nothing to say to you," John mumbles.

Jack smiles dryly. "Yeah, probably, not," he says. "Tell me about your boys."

That wakes him up. He glares at him again. "I said...you...leave them alone," he spits. Good. Anger is good.

"Just talk to me about them, John. Not where they are. Just talk to me. You've got to stay awake. You have two boys, right?"

John's eyes grow a little glassy, and Jack feels a little jolt of panic. But then the Hunter murmurs, "Dean. Sammy."

"That's right," Jack says. "Dean and Sammy. How old are they?"

John thinks about it for a minute, and Jack guides him past the visitor's center. The side away from the tour groups. "Dean's fifteen," he says. "Sammy's ten."

"What's Dean like?" Jack asks, keeping a cautious eye towards the visitor's center. Anybody who saw them would ask uncomfortable questions that he really, really doesn't have time for.

John's expression, just now so pained, softens. "Dean's a good kid," he says quietly. "Watches out for his brother. Dean's a good kid."

"He's a good kid," Jack agrees. John nods, his head falling against Jack's shoulder. Jack shrugs, very gently, and John lifts his head. "What about Sammy?" Jack prompts.

John takes a ragged breath. "Sammy's just a baby," he whispers. "I wish he didn't know."

Jack doesn't have to ask what he's talking about. "I know you do," he says. John closes his eyes, but it's to shield himself from the pain of what he's had to do to his son. He's not falling asleep.

They've gotten to the car, and Jack lets out a breath of relief. "Hey, John. Are you cold, still?"

John nods. "Yes."

Jack sets his jaw. "Okay. Let's get you in the car, and I'll turn the heat up. Sounds good?"

John nods again, his head seeming too heavy for him. "Sounds okay," he mumbles. "You'll take me to my boys?"

Jack glances at him in concern. "Yeah, John, I'll get your boys to you," he promises. He opens the door to the back seat with his free hand, and shifts John's weight so that it's easier for the man to climb in. "Can you get in?"

John lurches towards the car, and Jack catches him, glancing around worriedly as John cries out in pain. He closes the door quickly as soon as John is fully inside, and swings around to the driver's side, starting the car.

He cranks the heat up, wishing he had his greatcoat to lay over John as the man lies shivering in the back seat. "Stay with me, John," he calls.

The man only shivers in return.

Jack is breaking every speed limit on the drive back into town, but he _defies_ a police officer to stop him. This town might not know what Torchwood is, but he has enough titles and commendations and jargon to intimidate pretty much any figure of authority who dared to try him. Luckily, there aren't any police cars on the road, and he's able to do a good twenty over the limit the whole way back down the highway.

He hasn't heard anything from the back seat in a minute, and he's about to say something to John when he hears, "What are you?"

He stills, keeping his eyes on the road. "I'm human. Like you."

"Can't be," John says. "Died. But you're here."

"It's complicated," Jack replies.

"Half-human?" John guesses. "Used to be human? Deal with a demon? Just tell me. You have me. Just tell me."

Jack glances in his rear view mirror, and John's eyes are dull. There's no fight in them. He's bleeding out all over the rental car, and Jack knows he's losing hope that he'll see his boys again. He just wants to know what it is that's got him.

"John, I swear, I'm human. Something happened to me. I don't even know what it was, but something took away my ability to die. I don't understand it, so I can't explain it. But I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want to hurt your boys. I'm here to help. I know you don't believe me, but I'm here to help."

"You know I can't buy that," John whispers.

"I know," Jack says. "It's okay."

Jack pulls into the hospital parking area, and stops the car. John looks out the window and groans. "No hospital. _Please_."

Jack ignores him, getting out of the car and opening the door. "You're going to die if we don't get you help right now, and I don't mean your teenager stitching you up," he says, his voice cold and commanding. He crouches and leans into the car, gently helping John to a sitting position. The Hunter hisses, but allows it. Jack doesn't know if that's a good sign or a bad one, but he takes it for what it is, and helps John to his feet.

They walk into the emergency room, and John is immediately taken into a room. The nurse asks him for John's information, and Jack flashes his Torchwood ID at her.

"This man is in witness protection, effective immediately," he says. The nurse stares at him, wide-eyed. "I can't reveal his identity to you for obvious reasons."

The nurse nods. "Yes, of course," she says. "I understand. I'll put him in the system as a John Doe."

Jack smiles at her. "Perfect," he says. "Thank you for your cooperation. This is my number. Call me when he's out of surgery."

The nurse takes the slip of paper from him, stowing it solemnly in her pocket. "I'll call as soon as the doctors know anything," she promises. He grips her shoulder lightly, nods his thanks, and leaves the hospital.

One Winchester is safe—for now, at least.

Now he just has to find the other two.

* * *

Ninja edit: Thanks to apester for pointing out that I'd gotten John and Jack's names crossed a few times! Four letters each, both start with "J"...I knew I'd have a problem once I started typing fast.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: A little bit of a shorter chapter here as well_—_just had to give everyone a breather, including Jack, before things go nuts. And drop a couple of hints for Jack.

Next chapter might be a day or so late, as I've got a crazy weekend ahead of me, but I'll do my best to stay on the every-other-day schedule. Thanks for all the support, and I hope you continue to enjoy! Let me know!

* * *

From his motel room, Jack ponders what will happen if he doesn't find Sam and Dean.

The Reapers, first. The Reapers would come to destroy anyone connected to the paradox; anyone who'd had a hand in changing time, and anyone unlucky enough to be in the vicinity. They'd sterilise everything, and there's no telling where they'd stop.

The Doctor said in his letter that the boys' death could be disastrous for not only Earth but the universe, which must mean that one or both of them ends up involved in a fixed point in time. The consequences of altering a fixed point don't bear thinking about. The Earth could cease to exist, the galaxy could be sucked into a time loop, reality itself could unravel. There is little point in dwelling on it.

But dwelling is pretty much all that Jack has to do.

He scours the Doctor's letter, looking for anything that might tell him where the boys are. He wonders what the Doctor's frame of mind was when he wrote it. It's not in his voice, not the Doctor Jack knows. It sounds...off.

_It's about more than the paradox, Jack,_ the Doctor writes. He keeps writing Jack's name, as though they were having a conversation, for emphasis, for something. To keep his attention. Jack doesn't know. _It's about the boys. You'll understand, when you meet them. They won't trust you. They might never trust you. It won't matter. It didn't for me. There is something about these boys, something so pure, so heroic, so wonderful, that it puts the rest of humanity to shame. No offense, of course._

Jack can't even find the energy to snort. "Less waxing lyrical, more directions, Doctor," he murmurs.

_Samuel is special_, the letter reads. _Well. They're both special. And I have a feeling that you'll get on with Dean quite well if he doesn't shoot you. But somehow, and I never learned why, but somehow this is about Samuel. I have my guesses as to why, of course, but unfortunately, integrity of time and all, I can't tell you. But watch out for him, Jack, because someone or something is after him particularly. Dean is collateral damage._

If the kid is artron-sensitive, that makes sense, especially when paired with the fact that Sam eventually becomes connected to the Doctor. Lots of creatures would kill to get their hands on a helpless human boy who could lead them straight to a time traveler, because like all roads lead to Rome, all time travelers lead to the Doctor. So even now, never having met him, Sam is only two degrees separated from the Doctor. And those two degrees could be extremely useful for any number of the Doctor's enemies.

_I've met many of the universe's most remarkable people. So have you. But these boys are something else entirely. Even now, I can't say what it is about them. Something grand and epic contained in such incredible humanity. They run on luck and love and determination. And faith. Samuel especially. He has faith in everything and everyone, sometimes—perhaps especially—when it isn't deserved._

_I can't say too much or I risk altering the timeline. But if things get dark, Jack, be like Sam, and keep the faith._

Jack puts the letter down, exhaling slowly. There's nothing here that he hasn't read before, a thousand times, it seems. Just vague, bothered ramblings, worries about disrupting the timeline (the timeline that he sent Jack here _specifically to disrupt_), worries about the paradox, worries about the boys. It's not helpful.

This is an impossible thing that the Doctor has asked him to do—to save these boys without any help except for an ally that he can't trust, against the wishes of everyone he's supposed to be saving, from an enemy whose nature no one will tell him. All he has is a silver blade, shining in the yellow light of the motel room, and a letter that keeps telling him that it can't tell him anything except how _wonderful_ the boys are and how everything is doomed if Jack doesn't save them. Jack's job (and if he's going to be honest, his _existence_) consists largely of doing impossible things, but he has to admit, this one is looking grim.

And he has this sickening feeling that if he fails, and he has long enough to ponder it before the Earth explodes or whatever is going to happen happens, he'll never be able to forgive himself for letting those boys down.

Jack glances at the clock. Seven in the evening, and no more idea where the boys are than he had at eleven. John's out of surgery—the helpful young nurse called him with the good news—but he's still heavily sedated, and apparently only got through the procedure by the skin of his teeth. Jack hasn't been by to visit. The nurse will call him when John wakes up, she promised, but until then, Jack has no leads. And maybe even after that. He hopes that John will know where the boys are, but there's no telling—and even if he knows, there's no guarantee that he'll tell Jack.

He sits on the edge of his bed, controlling his breathing carefully. Jack Harkness is not the kind of man who panics.

Jack Harkness is _not_ the kind of man who panics.

God, it would be easier if he were.

He glares up at the ceiling, and then realizes that perhaps the floor might be a better target for his ire as he growls, "Azazel, you son of a bitch, if you can hear me, get over here."

Jack waits. He's not sure why, but he waits. Jack doesn't believe in demons, not in _demons_. He believes in escapees from the Time War. He believes in Dalek allies who show up in Earth history to continue their noble work of making everyone else miserable. Of course, he believes of the things he's seen with his own eyes. But he doesn't believe in _demons_. Summonings and exorcisms and spirituality and things like that.

But he waits.

After a full minute the passes like a decade (and what difference does it usually make?), he sighs. Nothing. Why is he not surprised?

He lets himself fall back on the bed, rubbing his face vigorously as though it'll stimulate his brain to figure out where in this tiny town two boys could have hidden from him for an entire twelve hours, and what kind of paramilitary training it would take for them to be able to do so, and what kind of ridiculous wild goose chase the Doctor had him on. Hell, if _he_ couldn't find the boys, how could anything else? What was he worried about?

His hands are over his eyes when he hears "Really, all you do is sleep, Harkness."

He bolts up instantly, turning furious eyes to Azazel, who is leaning against the far wall of the motel room with a smug grin on his face. Jack is rarely at a loss for words—his words keep him alive a good part of the time—but he can't even begin to form an appropriate response. So instead of sputtering, which is what will happen if he tries to talk, he crosses his arms, narrows his eyes, and waits for Azazel to say what he's come to say.

The demon takes his time, wandering through Jack's bare motel room, gazing at the few scattered items that Jack had thrown out of his backpack while looking for his weapons before heading to Hanging Rock. "Just coming by to tell you good job on saving John Winchester," he says casually. Jack grits his teeth and stays silent. "Didn't think you had it in you, to be honest. Quite the massacre."

"Are you here to help?" Jack asks, finally. "Because if not I don't have time for this."

"Good move, getting out of Hanging Rock so fast, by the way," Azazel continues, as if Jack hadn't said anything, "because I have it on good authority that the Black Annis' masters headed there after they realized their servants were dead, and you are not at the top of their favorite-people list."

The threat that lies beneath Azazel's words chills Jack, but he all he says is, "I didn't get out that fast. John could barely walk. They must not want me _that_ bad."

"Fast enough, at any rate," Azazel replies dismissively. "But I have no doubt they've picked up your scent, by now. You might want to move faster."

Jack can't do anything but laugh. It's a surprised sound, but past his desperation it is the closest to a genuine laugh he's had since arriving in Romney. "Oh, really?" he cries. "Thanks for the heads-up. Because I figured I'd just hang around in my motel room doing nothing until the boys showed up or whatever's after them swung by to kill me."

Azazel nods agreeably, infuriatingly. "Yes. That's precisely what it looked like you were doing."

That's enough. Jack strides up to Azazel, glaring at the demon straight in his freak-of-nature eyes, eyes that reveal the diseased alien squatting within the innocent human host. Azazel doesn't flinch or move away, but continues to smile that smug smile. "I've had it," Jack says quietly. "The Doctor won't tell me anything. You won't tell me anything. But both of you expect me to save the boys. _I want to._ You think I want to let them die? I want to save them. But _no one is letting me. _No one will tell me what I'm up against, or where to find them, or what somebody wants to kill them for in the first place."

"Well," Azazel says breezily, "you of all people ought to know, the integrity of—"

"Don't you dare," Jack growls. "_Don't you dare_. I got a letter from a Time Lord, from I don't even know how many years down the road in his personal timeline, telling me I needed to save these boys because they're slated to die tomorrow. Or because he knows I save them. Because _I'm_ slated to save them. I don't know, and I don't care, because it doesn't have anything to do with my job here. But dammit, if you won't help me, then stay out of my way."

There is a long moment of silence, in which neither party is willing to be the first to break eye contact. So Jack is forced to glare into Azazel's eyes for much longer than he would have liked, until finally Azazel begins to applaud him, slowly.

"What a show of spirit," he says, while Jack breaks the gaze by rolling his eyes and turning away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I like that in you, Captain. Maybe you'll get through this thing alive."

"You know what?" Jack says, turning back to him, his hands stuffed angrily in the pockets of his (filthy, mud-caked) slacks. "I don't have time for your taunts and your mockery and your _crap_ right now. Do you know where Sam and Dean are, or don't you? Because if you don't, then you can get the hell out of here."

Jack doesn't know what happened. He's a difficult man to take by surprise, but he can't for the life of him connect A to B here. He has no idea how he wound up pressed up against the wall with Azazel's hand tightening around his throat, his yellow eyes burning into Jack's own, a sneer tugging at the corner of his lip. Jack gasps, clawing at the hand that holds him, but it's useless. He had no idea what this kind of parasitism would do to the human body, but evidently, at least part of the answer is _make it incredibly strong_. He tries to suck in a breath, but gets very little air. The corners of his vision are beginning to darken.

_He won't kill me._ The thought occurs hazily to him. _He can't afford to waste the time._

Azazel is speaking to him, and he tunes in on the conversation like dialing in a particularly difficult radio. He tries to focus his eyes, but that's not happening. His vision is a blur of yellow and darkness. "...would do well to remember your place, boy," the demon is growling, or at least that's probably what he's saying, Jack is only pretty sure. "I could end you here and now."

Jack chokes out something that was supposed to be words.

Azazel tilts his head. "What was that, _Captain_?" he asks viciously.

Jack swallows hard past the hand on his throat, and smiles. The hand loosens slightly. "Said, but you won't," he mumbles. "Y'_need_ me."

Azazel looks for a moment like he's considering just getting down to it and beating Jack senseless, but after that moment passes, he releases Jack, who crumples to the floor, grasping at his abused windpipe and gasping for breath. "No," Azazel replies thoughtfully. "No, I suppose I won't, and yes, I suppose I do."

Azazel crouches by Jack, who grins defiantly up at him from his prone position. He wonders if it's a trait he picked up from the Doctor—when you're backed into a corner, be _as_ obnoxious as possible. If nothing else, it'll throw your enemy off-guard. "Good to know we're pals," Jack croaks past his damaged throat.

Azazel smiles in return, and that smile is daggers and poison. "Defiant to the very last," he says. "You humans and your heroism. So quaint."

Jack rolls his eyes and sighs. "Is this going somewhere?" he asks. "Because I've got a paradox to stop, if we're done here."

Azazel laughs at that, slapping Jack a little too hard on the shoulder to be mistaken for friendliness. Jack doesn't flinch, because he's not going to give the demon the pleasure. "You don't have anywhere to go, Harkness," he says. "All your problems are going to arrive right on your doorstep."

That snaps Jack out of the oxygen deprivation haze he's in, and he sits up, eyes focused and sharp. "What do you mean?" he demands.

Azazel rocks back on his heels, steepling his fingers. "That's what I came to tell you," he says. "I found one of your delinquents."

Jack pulls himself to his feet, his hands scrabbling at the wall for a moment as his body protests the sudden movement. He opens his mouth to ask where they are and if they're alright when his brain catches up with Azazel's statement, and the only word that comes out of his mouth is, "_One_?"

Azazel shrugs, but Jack can see the tension beneath the gesture. It's not a good sign. "Dean is on his way here. Sam is...blocked from me, now. More securely than before. Dean is radiating thoughts and prayers to anybody with an ounce of psychic ability, which is how I found him."

"Prayers?" Jack echoes.

Azazel rolls his eyes. "Yes, Harkness, prayers. Try to keep up."

Jack decides to ignore that for now. "If Sam is blocked to you, then he could be with Dean, right? I mean, hypothetically?" he asks, without much hope.

Azazel shrugs again. "I suppose anything's possible," he says. "But think about your luck, Harkness. Is that likely?"

It sounds so much like Sam and Dean's conversation in the diner that it hurts a little bit. Jack doesn't have time to dwell on that, however, as a frantic knock comes at the door. He looks over to Azazel, only to find that the demon is gone. He shudders, clenching his fists in anger. He _hates_ that. He shouldn't be able to do that. It's not natural, not with a human body. He wonders if the Doctor can explain that little trick.

(He needs to get out of this place and back to Torchwood. It'll do him no good to give into superstitious thinking.)

He goes up to the door, his hand on the sonic blaster that he at least had the foresight to take with him from Hanging Rock. He looks through the peep-hole.

Dean Winchester stands alone outside the door, his youthful face covered in sweat, pistol in hand. He's tapping his foot anxiously, and keeps looking down and to his right—just at the height where his brother's eyes would be, were he there.

Which he's not.

Of course.

"I'm armed this time, Dean, so let's just stay calm," Jack calls, and hears the boy's shoes shift on the ground outside. He opens the door slowly, holding the blaster up pointed at the ceiling.

Dean's giving him no such benefit of the doubt, and has the pistol leveled at his chest as he opens the door.

Jack sighs. "Come on, Dean. We know how that went last time," he says wearily. "I have been looking for you _everywhere_, and—"

"I don't trust you," Dean interrupts, his voice ragged. Jack stops, and watches the boy carefully. "I don't like you. I don't want to be here."

"Okay," Jack says, cautiously.

"I don't like that you know my name. I don't like that you know why we're here."

"That's okay, Dean," Jack says gently.

The pistol is trembling, just very slightly, in the boy's hands, and when Jack looks to his face he sees the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. Dean sets his jaw against the appearance of weakness and says, "But I can't find my dad, and you're the only one I can ask."

Jack closes his eyes, and forms the words he doesn't want to say. "Ask for what, Dean?"

"Help," Dean says bitterly.

"Help with what?" Jack asks, knowing the answer.

Dean screws up his face, obviously fighting off the tears that are about to overwhelm him, and says, "Sammy's missing. Somebody took him. And I need your help to find him."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Ouch, my Dean. This chapter made me sad to write.

Thanks so much for the reviews, faves, and follows! I love hearing what everyone is thinking.

* * *

The pistol is still pointed at Jack's chest, but he no longer really cares.

The boy in front of him is a picture of misery: no longer the tough, confident young man who cornered him in the alley. As Jack studies him, he sees that his face is pale, the circles under his eyes deep and bruise-like. There's something unfocused about his gaze, but it could just be that Dean is fighting to keep a lid on his tears. His breathing is controlled and even. Jack nods slowly and takes a step back. "Okay. All right. You want to come in?" he asks.

Dean's eyes dart for a moment, from Jack to the room to the car park and back to Jack. His brow furrows as he studies him, green eyes searching for some tick, some tell, some sign of malice. He catches his lip in his teeth, gaze landing somewhere over Jack's shoulder as he contemplates.

Looking suddenly his age, he drops his arm and nods, his head drooping. Jack ushers him in, feeling a swell of sympathy for the boy, and closes the door behind him after checking the car park for unwelcome tag-alongs.

When he turns back, Dean is already sitting on the bed, his pistol still in his right hand and his left hand covering his face. Jack says nothing. He puts his blaster down on the table, far away from both of them, and walks back to Dean. He's careful to make sure the boy knows he's there before he sits down, slowly, on the bed next to him.

Dean freezes, then flinches away from Jack a minute amount. "Hey," Jack says, quietly. "It's okay. I'm really not going to hurt you."

Dean says nothing, but Jack sees his throat work as he swallows down a sob. "This is nuts," he whispers, his voice tremulous.

"Tell me about it," Jack replies, choking out a single laugh. That's enough to break Dean's gaze from its fixed place on the floor, and he looks up. Jack smiles sadly. "We're both deep in it, Dean. And it's not fair. But at least now we have one person we can count on, right?"

"I can't count on you," Dean says through his teeth, which Jack notices are chattering slightly. Must be nerves; it's still hot and muggy outside, and his air conditioner isn't doing much to keep away the stuffiness inside, either. "I don't even know you."

"No," Jack agrees easily. "But even if you don't trust me, I'm gonna help you find your brother. We're gonna get Sam back safe, Dean. I promise."

Dean's eyes are searching his again, as though desperate to find some sign of treachery. Some sign that the status quo is the same: trust your family, nobody else. Something to convince Dean that Jack is going to double-cross him. That he's going to go back on his word.

_They might never trust you. It won't matter. It didn't for me._

Huh.

"But what about you, Dean?" Jack asks, and the boy frowns, eyes widening for a moment as though he's startled by Jack continuing to talk. "As long as the thing we're doing is finding and saving Sam, can _I_ count on _you_?"

Dean's eyes clear, and he rolls his shoulders back. "Yeah," he says, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Of course."

"Good," Jack says. "So what I need you to do is tell me what happened. Start as far back as you need to. In fact, why don't you start with the diner? And where the two of you went?"

Dean narrows his eyes, but the look is more incredulous than distrustful, and for that small concession Jack is relieved. Then he notices the almost imperceptible tugging at the corner of Dean's mouth, and realizes that it's a smile trying to form. "Seriously?" Dean asks.

Jack frowns. "Seriously what?"

The grin breaks free, and it lights up Dean's face, takes off years of worry and pain. There's pride in that smile, and amusement. "You seriously don't know where we were all day?" he clarifies.

Jack's frown deepens. "Yes, Dean, seriously. I seriously don't know."

Dean presses his lips together to avoid laughing, and says, "We were behind you. The whole time. We didn't leave the diner until you did, and we just kept going to places you'd already been."

Jack is quiet for a moment, letting his injured pride knit itself back together in the face of that obvious solution, and the way that this stupid mistake has possibly lead to Sam getting hurt. If he'd just looked behind him. If he hadn't underestimated these boys and their dedication to not being found, their lifetime of training in hiding and running. If only he'd been smarter, quicker, more observant.

"Okay. So you knew when I left from the motel. Where did you go then?" Jack asks.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, his eyes glued to his pistol. "We stayed at the motel," he says. "Just...camped out there. I tried to call my dad, but he didn't answer his phone."

Jack has to force himself not to look away at that. He can't afford to tell Dean he knows where his father is; it would lead to way too many questions he doesn't have time to answer right now. It hurts, though, to watch the kid wonder if he should be grieving for his father, to have to prioritize his family. His brother, or his father? But if Jack is being honest, the question doesn't seem hard for Dean. Find Sammy. Protect Sammy.

"So we waited," Dean continues. "In the bathroom. And then, maybe like three hours ago, we heard somebody kick the door in. I thought it was you. So I took a shotgun and went out."

Dean's free hand grips the blankets, kneads them fretfully as he casually discusses his plans to murder Jack. His lips press together until they are white, but it doesn't keep the tears out of his eyes. One falls down his cheek, and he wipes it away angrily. "It was one guy. Just one guy. He crossed the salt line so I even think he was human. But he had a crowbar."

Jack's eyes widen in horror at the same moment that Dean laughs, his voice hollow. "A crowbar. Of all the damn things. I've fought things that normal people can't even _imagine_ and I get knocked out by a damn _crowbar_."

Jack's hands lift almost before he knows what he's doing, reaching for the swelling that he can now see on the back of Dean's head. Dean tenses and glares at him, and Jack pauses, his fingers spreading in a gesture of surrender. "I just want to see if you're okay," Jack says, apologetically.

"I'm fine," Dean spits.

"You probably have a concussion," Jack argues.

"Do you want to hear what happened, or are you going to mother-hen me until that guy's so far gone we never find Sammy?" Dean shouts, and Jack backs off. Dean exhales, setting his jaw and steadying his breathing before he goes on.

"It knocked me out. The blow. I mean, just for a minute. But I was so sick when I woke up that I couldn't do anything. Couldn't move. I saw the door close behind the guy, and I heard Sam yelling, but I couldn't stand up."

"You have a concussion," Jack insists, reaching for Dean's head again. Dean slaps away his hands, upset.

"It was _hours_ ago," Dean says irritably. "I've been looking for Sam for the last three hours, once I stopped throwing up."

"Dean," Jack says, alarmed, "you could be _very_ sick."

"I checked my damn pupils!" Dean shouts. "I remember what day it is and who the president is. Yeah, he got in a good hit. But my brother is missing and I'm not letting a concussion stop me from getting him back. Are you on board for that plan or should I just go on my own?"

The kid glares at Jack, and Jack watches him carefully. He shakes his head, gets off the bed, and goes into his backpack. He can feel Dean's eyes on him. "What are you doing?" Dean demands.

Jack comes up with an automated syringe, but it evidently looks a little too much like a gun to Dean, who swings the pistol back to aim at Jack, eyes wild. "Put it down," he barks. Jack sighs. "Put it down!"

Jack doesn't put it down, but points it at the ceiling. "It's just medicine, Dean," he says. "It's an anti-inflammatory and pain reliever. You can't afford to be getting sick while we're looking for Sam. Right?"

Dean doesn't put the gun down, either. "Give it to yourself first," he orders. It's all Jack can do not to roll his eyes, but he extends his left arm and presses the syringe against it, giving himself a shot of the medicine. He winces a little as the injection goes in, but it's mostly for Dean's benefit, to prove to him that he'd really done it.

He looks up at the kid, as though to say _was that enough?_, and Dean looks away. His eyes look unfocused for a moment, and that is, indeed, enough for Jack. He stands, takes Dean's left wrist into his hand, and lays the syringe along his forearm. He glances at the boy, who nods slowly. He depresses the trigger, and Dean hisses as the medicine hits his veins.

Jack watches his eyes as the pain reliever begins to kick in, and is gratified to see them clear. Dean inhales, long and unsteady, and looks reluctantly at Jack. "Thanks," he says brusquely. Jack just smiles. "Okay. We've got to find Sammy. I don't have any idea where they could have taken him. But we have to hurry, because..." Dean trails off, and Jack understands.

_We have sixteen and a half hours_ is what he wants to say. _Your brother won't die until noon tomorrow. You won't die until noon tomorrow. I won't let either of you die at all, but you're not even really in danger until noon tomorrow. The Doctor promised me that I had until then to save you. He promises, I promise that your brother is safe right now, alive and maybe scared and maybe hurt and definitely missing you but he's not dead._

That would be difficult to explain, and probably not as comforting to Dean as it is to Jack. But those words are in his mind as he puts his hand on Dean's shoulder. "We're gonna find him," he says, and the boy shrugs beneath his palm. It doesn't mean _I don't know_, it means, _you don't have to tell me_. So Jack stands, collecting his things—weapons, medicine, letter—and turns to Dean. "Are you ready to go?"

Dean stands in reply, slipping the gun into the back of his jeans, and just as Jack thought he keeps his gun precisely where John kept his.

Jack opens the door, lets Dean out first, and then locks it after he steps through. Dean, standing at the edge of the covered walkway, peers through narrowed eyes at the dark sky. He studies the horizon as though he could find his brother in the inky blackness, find some signal to lead them to Sam.

A thought occurs to Jack, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, plain black wallet. He flips it open, revealing a blank white card. Sam was blocked to Azazel, but maybe not to Jack. Maybe the kid has some kind of psychic ability; maybe the psychic paper can pick him up. He glances over the paper at Dean, who is still frowning out at the sky, and then looks back down at his paper.

_Let me find him just please let me find him I'll do anything just don't let me have lost him_

Jack sighs. Radiating thoughts and prayers, Azazel had said. Right. Even if Sam were yelling with all the psychic power he could muster, Dean would be drowning him out with his prayers.

"Okay," he says, and Dean jumps, then tries to play it off by pretending to work a knot out of his shoulder. He meets the older man's eyes solemnly, waiting for instruction.

The change in demeanor takes Jack by surprise. Out the door, their arrangement agreed upon, suddenly Dean is ready to take orders from a man he'd been willing to shoot minutes earlier. But the Doctor had said that he was John's perfect little soldier. Sam's protector. But what was Dean to Dean?

But there isn't time for philosophical speculation, or even for more pity heaped upon the boy. Jack tilts his head towards the rental as he says, "We'll take my car." Dean nods and follows obediently, climbing into the car and shutting the door quietly as Jack hops in the driver's seat.

While Jack steers the car out of the car park, Dean begins to methodically clean his pistol. Jack only watches out of the corner of his eye, but there's something unnerving about the automatic way the boy does it. Like it's as natural as breathing. "Pretty familiar with that gun," he remarks.

Dean shrugs, a bit sullenly. "Gotta be," he replies. "Part of the job."

Jack just nods, merging onto the main drag. He doesn't know where he's going, but he supposes he'll figure it out as he goes along. At least this time, he can keep an eye on one of the boys.

A long moment passes in silence, and Dean is getting twitchy in the passenger seat. Eventually he surges forward and hits the power button on the radio with perhaps undue violence. Jack glances at him, and turns the volume down as some classic southern American rock song starts playing. Dean glowers at him.

"I need you to talk to me, Dean," he says. Dean's glare fades in intensity, and turns into something sadder, something more fragile. "I need you to tell me anything you remember about the man who took Sam. Any detail you can think of. Anything could be important."

Dean shifts away from Jack, staring out the window while his fingers pass lightly over the barrel of his gun. "He wasn't very big," he says quietly. "Shorter than you. I think he was white but I couldn't see much of his skin. He was wearing, like, a ski mask. Or whatever. Black clothes. Gloves. I mean, like a real movie bank robber kind of guy."

"Did you hear him talk?" Jack asks.

Dean begins to shake his head, then frowns. "Yeah, actually. But he wasn't speaking English."

"Do you remember what it sounded like he said?" Jack presses, a tight band of worry forming around his chest.

Dean thinks for a moment, and in his peripheral vision Jack can see the lights from the few other cars and the few street lamps lining the road reflecting off of Dean's face, illuminating his pensive expression, making him look older and weary in their gray light. "It sounded like he...I mean, the words don't make any sense, but it sounded like he said _all are pash_."

It isn't the first time Jack misses having the TARDIS to translate for him, but the longing is rarely so strong as it is right now.

It's no form of Latin that Jack's ever heard of, so it's not likely to be a spell. (Jack can hardly believe he's even _thinking_ those words.) And if Dean recognized them in any way, he would have said something. "Okay. So you're pretty sure he was human, maybe not American, probably white. Anything else?"

Dean considers, then shakes his head. "No. He was already in the room when I got in, and I just got a quick look at him before he hit me with the crowbar. By the time I really came to again he was out the door with—" The rest of the sentence is too painful for Dean to articulate, so he stops.

Jack doesn't press it.

They ride around the town together for a while, keeping a sharp eye out on either side for any probably white men in balaklavas. Obviously there's nothing. Obviously Sam's abductor isn't going to be stupid enough to walk along the side of the road, waiting for them to come looking for him.

The silence isn't comfortable, but it's not as hostile as Jack was afraid it would be. He glances over every now and then to see Dean huddled smaller and smaller in on himself, as though if he took up less room there would be more room for Sam to come back. Occasionally, Jack notices his eyes shut, probably in prayer. He'd bet that if he pulls out his psychic paper, it would have the desperate, fevered wishes of a teenager on it: all for his little brother, for his safe return, for his courage until they got there. _Until_ they got there.

"Hey!" Dean cries, slapping Jack's arm, and Jack has to focus very hard on not wrecking the rental car as he is violently pulled out of his reverie. "That car! It has a busted tail light. I only saw one tail light when the guy pulled out of the parking lot with Sammy."

Jack hesitates for a minute. It's not much to go on. There are probably lots of cars in this town with busted tail lights.

But it's all they've got, so he follows the car.

Dean is now leaning forward in his seat, his breath shallow. Jack looks quickly at him, and Dean looks back, his eyes shining with excitement and fear and hope. "This has got to be him," he says.

"Let's not get too excited," Jack admonishes, but he knows that his warnings are falling on unwilling ears. Dean has a lead—or something that looks like a lead if you squint hard enough. He's not going to let go of it. And Jack can't blame him, not really.

The car turns onto a service road, and Jack follows it. Dean is drumming his fingers against the door, his eyes never leaving the car, as though he's afraid that Jack is going to lose it and he's the only one who can keep a proper eye on it. This time, when Jack glances at him, Dean's lips are moving silently in a prayer that's now too much for his head to contain but that he can't say out loud for fear it won't come true.

Jack is about to say something to Dean, something wise and reassuring, undoubtedly, when the tires of the car he's following squeal as its driver jerks it off the road, heading into a pitch-black field surrounded by trees on the side of the interstate.

Jack swears like the serviceman he is and follows the car off the road, hoping that his practical little rental car can take a beating better than it looks like it can. Dean grips the handle above the window, his face pale and drawn, as he stares at the car careening in front of them.

The car stops, and one person, probably male, probably a little shorter than Jack, runs out from the driver's side.

Jack slams on the breaks just in time to not hit the car, and he and Dean throw off their seat belts almost in unison. Dean goes for the door handle, and Jack grips his arm. "I want you to stay behind me," he says. Dean is ready to argue but Jack gives him his best Commanding Officer look, and the boy quiets. "We don't know what this thing is. I don't want you hurt."

"It has Sammy," Dean says, as though no further explanation is needed. He jumps out of the car, and Jack has to run to stop him from going into the woods by himself. Dean pulls away from Jack's grip on his arm, but Jack doesn't let go, glaring into Dean's eyes.

"You're no good to Sammy if it gets you, too," Jack says. "Now I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Stay behind me."

Dean is angry. He's frustrated. He's scared and excited and desperate to find his little brother and almost as desperate to get away from Jack. But Jack keeps giving him that _I am your captain and that is an order_ look, and the boy caves. He looks down, bites his lip hard, and nods. "Yes, sir," he mutters, his voice stiff.

It doesn't sit well with Jack, the _yes, sir_. A little too obedience for its own sake. But he needs Dean to listen to him, and maybe now there's just not enough time to reason with the kid. So instead of looking this gift horse in the mouth, Jack grips Dean's shoulder. The fact that the boy allows it is surprising enough.

They check the parked car, neither one expecting Sam to be in the back seat, or in the trunk once Jack pries it open. The younger boy isn't, but at least it's not too much of a disappointment. Jack turns to Dean, who is looking down at the ground. Not _too_ much of a disappointment.

"Stay with me," Jack says. "Stay close." A thought occurs to him, and, keeping Dean in his sight, he goes to the car and retrieves something from the back seat.

He doesn't know why he gives it to Dean. He just feels like he needs to, and Jack has learned to trust his instincts.

He hands Dean the dagger that Azazel had given him. "Keep this on you," he says, as Dean studies the weapon in something that looks like awe. "It's supposed to kill whatever the Black Annis were working for."

Dean looks up sharply. "Were?"

"Are," Jack corrects himself, cursing silently. "What they _are_ working for. If anything happens to me, run, and keep that dagger on you. Don't be afraid to use it."

Dean's grin is not something that should be on the face of a child. "I won't be," he says.

Jack believes him.

The man had run into the woods, and Jack looks out into the inky blackness and sighs. "We'd better get going," he says quietly. "Stick close."

Dean nods silently, and Jack marvels at him.

Jack had been right, the first time he looked out into the sky at the motel. The stars are bright, unimpeded by light pollution, shining down on them with the light of a thousand other worlds.

As Jack leads Dean Winchester into the woods to find his brother, even those thousand systems can't give enough light to guide their way.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in this chapter! It was slow going getting it written. I keep trying for longer chapters, but I feel like Jack and Dean are just the types to be written in shorter sequences than, for example, Sam's POV in "The Shadow Proclamation". Men of action et cetera.

In other news, there are several more chapters of this left to write, but I have most of the outline for the next story done! It's going to be *exciting*.

* * *

Dean Winchester is better at this than his father.

He moves between the trees absolutely soundlessly, pistol in his right hand, dagger in his left. His sharp eyes keep a keen lookout, while simultaneously watching for the smallest signal from Jack to tell him where to go, when to stop, where to turn. His rebellious attitude, evidently, has been left in the clearing, and he moves with single-minded purpose and absolute obedience. John's perfect little soldier. Jack can't find it in himself to resent it.

They've been walking through the woods for nearly half an hour, and haven't seen the man from the car again. They've been able to follow his trail easily, but it's just leading them deeper and deeper into the woods, and Jack is getting more and more uneasy. Dean has been perfectly silent throughout the whole thing, and Jack watches him carefully, waiting for some signal that he's starting to feel poorly, or that his concussion is impairing him. He wishes that they had time to wait it out, to let the kid rest, or, better yet, to take him to the hospital. But they don't. And Dean wouldn't stand for it, anyway. Nothing will get between him and finding his brother; Jack knows that already.

Jack gestures for Dean to stop, and Dean does, instantly, his light feet planted in the ground as he waits for instruction. But it's not forthcoming as Jack crouches, studying the ground carefully.

Dean crouches next to him, sticking the dagger under his arm and drawing a flashlight out of the jacket that he's stubbornly refused to take off. Jack suspects that it's a hand-me-down from his father, something of a good luck charm for Dean. "What is it?" Dean breathes, lisping slightly to stay quieter.

"The tracks are really deep," Jack responds, equally softly, putting his fingers lightly into the sneaker print carved into the ground, the tips of them sinking into the soft earth. "I don't like it."

"Maybe he's panicking," Dean offers hopefully. "Maybe he's just not being careful."

Jack raises an eyebrow, and Dean's face falls. "Maybe," the boy says again, and then winces and presses the heel of his right hand against his temple, furrowing his brow. He doesn't make a sound, but the look on his face is enough for Jack.

Jack waits until Dean meets his eyes, and then nods towards a larger tree. Dean takes a breath to protest, but Jack shakes his head firmly. Dean rolls his eyes and grits his teeth, but complies, sitting down heavily against the broad trunk.

Jack takes the flashlight out of Dean's hand and shines the light into the kid's eyes. Dean narrows them, and Jack glares at him. Reluctantly, Dean opens his eyes, gazing sullenly at Jack, and Jack watches as his pupils constrict. They constrict evenly, and he lets out a breath of relief. "How are you feeling?" he whispers.

Dean shrugs, looking away. "Okay," he says stubbornly. Jack says nothing in return, and after a moment, Dean looks up quickly and then back down. "...mostly," he adds, caving.

"Let's sit for a minute," Jack says, and raises a finger to silence Dean before the boy can say anything back. "Just for a minute. Just until your head clears. You want to be a liability?"

Dean shakes his head, his lips a thin, pale line.

Jack leans back against the trunk, and checks his watch. Eight thirty. Fifteen and a half hours. He shines the flashlight on the too-clear trail ahead of them, and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out what kind of trap it is that they're being led into, what the end-game could be. The Doctor said this is about Sam. But if it's about Sam, then why would whatever took the younger boy need Dean to find them?

"What's your name?"

Jack blinks in surprise, turning to Dean. The kid's not looking at him, but studying the silver dagger in the faint starlight, the edge glistening from bit of the flashlight beam that's hitting it. Dean runs his fingers along it in a gesture that almost resembles tenderness as he determinedly keeps his eyes off of Jack. "Sam didn't tell you?" Jack asks.

Dean shakes his head, his gaze not leaving the dagger as he says, "Sammy said he couldn't remember. He was really upset, after the two of you met."

It's an accusation, and Jack isn't stupid enough to pretend it's not. "I don't know why your brother reacted that way," he says carefully, making sure not to imply that Sam did anything wrong. Not only because he didn't, but because Dean would not take kindly to that implication.

Dean shrugs, clearly not satisfied with the answer but willing to not press further. "What's your name, though?" he asks again.

Jack sticks out a hand, and Dean glances at it before going back to studying the dagger with his fingers. Jack lets his hand fall. His luck with Winchesters and handshakes has been less than good, he thinks with a wry amusement. "It's Jack," he says. "Captain Jack Harkness."

Dean looks up again, a bit sharply, and there's something wary in his eyes. "Jack?" he echoes.

"Yeah," Jack replies, uncertain. "Why?"

"It's nothing," Dean lies, and despite the obvious untruth that seems to be the end of it for just a moment, until he adds, "It's just that my dad met somebody named Jack a couple days ago. But that Jack died, so I don't know why I'm talking about that."

_You're talking about it because you are entirely too smart for your own good,_ Jack thinks, _and know way too much to believe in coincidence._

What he says is, "I'm sorry to hear your dad's friend died."

"Not a friend," Dean says firmly. "A civilian. Dad was hunting the Black Annis, and this guy got in the way and got killed."

"Yeah?" Jack says. "And he told you about it?"

Dean nods, his gaze returning to the dagger. "Yeah. Dad says the guy was trying to help him, so we had a drink in his honor." Jack quirks an eyebrow at him, and Dean pulls an unimpressed face. "Really? I'm fifteen. I've got a gun that I've pulled on you more than once, I'm camped out with a total stranger in the woods looking for my kidnapped brother, and you're gonna make that face about me drinking?"

It's not a bad point, so Jack doesn't contest it.

"So who are you?" Dean presses, and Jack leans more heavily against the tree, suppressing a sigh. There's no escaping the question, not if he wants Dean to let himself have a little bit more rest. "Really. And don't say _a friend_, I hate that, and anybody who says that hardly ever is."

Jack laughs softly. "Well, I'm not," he says, and Dean glances at him. "I'm not your friend. Maybe someday I could be, but I don't even know you. It's more like...a friend of a friend."

"Yeah?" Dean challenges. "What friend?"

Jack tilts his head back, staring through the sparse canopy into the night's sky that he used to traverse. That the friend in question still dances through. "I can't tell you," he says, plainly, honestly. "You'll understand why some day, and maybe you'll be glad for it. But our friend..." Jack chokes out another laugh. "He's a good friend to have, Dean."

Dean is watching him through narrowed eyes. "So this friend of ours that I don't know, he what, sent you here?" he asks. "How did he know Sam was going to get taken?"

"He didn't," Jack says. "At least, I don't think he did. Maybe he did. It's complicated, but all he could tell me was that the two of you were in danger, and that I needed to come help you."

"Why couldn't _he_ come help us?" Dean asks.

Jack studies the red glint of Betelgeuse. "That's even more complicated than why I'm here," he says. "But he told me that you two needed help, and more than anything, he wants to help his friends. Even if they don't know him yet. This friend, he cares about the two of you."

"Friggin' creepy that some dude would send some other dude to spy on two kids," Dean mutters, but his voice is less vitriolic than it might be. Jack turns his head to him, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Dean is polishing the blunt face of the dagger on the sleeve of his coat, and to Jack's surprise there is what looks like the threat of a smile on his lips.

Jack understands. That smile, that almost-smile, is coming from the same place that sent Dean to Jack's motel room. That place of utter loneliness, of looking up at the stars and feeling only small and scared, of having two people in the world that you can count on and having them both taken from you in a day. Dean doesn't fully believe that Jack is there to help him, at least not without an ulterior motive. But the kid can't find a real downside to entertaining the fantasy, while sitting concussed in the woods with an armed stranger, that not only Jack but some mysterious friend are looking out for him and his brother.

The smile fades quickly, though, and Jack says, "How's the head?"

"Better," Dean says, and Jack is pretty sure he's telling the truth. He looks hopeful as he asks, "Can we go find Sammy now?"

Jack nods reluctantly. "But if you start feeling bad again, let me know," he says. Dean looks skeptical, so he continues, "Like I've told you already, you're no good to your brother if you start throwing up all over the people who took him. I mean, it's a unique tactic, but not one that's likely to be especially effective."

"Never underestimate the element of surprise," Dean quips, and Jack has to suppress a sharp, surprised laugh. He settles for a wide grin, and there's a satisfied light in Dean's eyes that the boy can't quite hide as he stands up. Jack follows him, shaking his head.

They return to the tracks, and Jack folds his arms. "Wherever he's headed to, he wants us to follow him," Jack says. Dean looks up at him, listening intently. "If he could get the jump on you, he's good enough to not leave this kind of trail if he didn't want to."

"So you're saying we're walking into a trap," Dean clarifies. He doesn't sound upset, or scared, just a little angry and a lot resigned.

"I'm saying we're walking into what he thinks is going to be a trap," Jack says. "But if we know about it in advance, a little less of a trap."

Dean's brow furrows as he takes the flashlight back from Jack and shines it down the path, where the tracks are stamped into the ground. He squints and sticks his tongue in the corner of his mouth in intense concentration. "You don't think he's trying to lead us away from Sammy, do you?" he asks.

It startles Jack, just a bit. He frowns. "I don't know for sure," Jack says. "He might be. But this is the only lead we have right now, Dean."

Dean deflates a little, and nods wearily. "Yeah," he says. "I know."

The kid starts following the tracks, and Jack stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Dean turns back to him, wary and confused. "This is how this will happen," Jack begins, and Dean's expression shuts down instantly, becomes guarded and stubborn. Jack narrows his eyes. "Don't start. You stay behind me. Don't argue with me, Dean. You _stay behind me_."

"Why, 'cause you can take a bullet better than me?" Dean challenges, and it's all Jack can do not to laugh.

"You don't know he has a gun," Jack says. Dean doesn't bother to keep from laughing.

"Of _course_ he has a gun," Dean says. Jack frowns, and Dean's eyes widen. "You didn't see the box of ammo in the car?"

Jack blinks, and Dean's smile turns smug. He claps Jack on the shoulder. "Maybe _you_ should stay behind _me_," he says, and starts to walk away.

Perhaps a little rougher than necessary (he's not mad because he was shown up by a kid; he's mad for...a different reason, surely), Jack grabs Dean by the arm and spins him around to face him. Dean's eyes are wide as Jack says, "I'm not kidding, Dean. You're going to stay behind me. I'm not letting you get hurt. I already let your brother get taken; nothing else is going to happen to either of you on my watch."

Dean doesn't try to pull away, which says something about the way Jack is looking at him. The kid nods, placating, keeping his cautious gaze on Jack. Jack feels a stab of guilt for being the cause of that look on Dean's face. "Okay. Okay, I'll stay behind you."

Jack pries his fingers off of Dean's arm and steadies his breathing. He looks down and rubs his face briskly. "Sorry," he says softly. Dean just nods again. "Sorry. I just—we ought to get going."

Dean obeys, and does as he promised: he stays behind Jack as the former Time Agent picks his way through the brush, keeping half an eye on the trail and the rest of his attention everywhere else, because he wouldn't put it past the man they're following to double back and ambush them from the trees. Maybe the tracks are as clear as they are so he can step back into them easily.

Dean whispers, "What are you, military?"

Jack shakes his head, shrugging. "Not exactly. But sometimes."

He can feel Dean's questioning gaze on the back of his head, but decides to ignore it until Dean says, "You're really weird."

"Says the fifteen year old packing more heat than most mercenaries," Jack shoots back.

Dean is grinning behind him and takes a breath to say something when the first gunshot rings out.

"Get down!" Jack shouts automatically, spinning around and shoving Dean to the ground. Another shot fires, and Jack pushes Dean further into the brush, behind a couple of trees closer together than the rest. Dean doesn't argue, but moves where Jack puts him.

"What the hell!" the kid growls, sticking the dagger in the inside pocket of his jacket and taking the safety off of his pistol. Jack puts a hand over the gun, and Dean stares at him incredulously.

"You stay here, I'm going to see where he's put himself," Jack orders, and Dean has protest written all over his face but Jack's having none of it, because it's not noon yet and Dean's not going to die and his being here will _not_ have made this _worse_ for them.

Because he doesn't like to think about it, but the Doctor is changing this timeline by placing Jack in it.

If Jack screws it up, he's not necessarily changing it for the _better_.

(Time can be rewritten, but not always in the way intended.)

His compact laser deluxe is hot and light in his hand, and his hand is steady. He stands up and peers carefully around the tree.

The man is standing down a small alley in the trees, where the tracks were leading. Jack can barely make him out but he knows it's the same man that Dean described. A little shorter than Jack, Caucasian, with a black balaclava shoved up onto his forehead. No need for mystery anymore; he has them where he wants them.

His hair is stringy, greasy, uncared-for, and his eyes are dark and wild. He doesn't see Jack, or at least doesn't make eye contact, but he has the look of a zealot or a madman. Either one is bad news, and Jack grips the laser a little more tightly.

"Harkness!" the man cries, and Jack stiffens as though electrocuted. Dean stares up at him through wide eyes. "Come on out! We have the boy!"

Dean scrambles to his feet, and Jack pins him to the trees with his free arm. "Let me go," Dean snarls, struggling against Jack's hold.

"Stop," Jack commands, and despite himself Dean does. "I don't know what's going on or why he knows me. You have to wait. You _have_ to stay out of the way."

"He has Sammy," Dean says, and like every time he says those words, it's everything in the world contained in them. Jack can see, in the dim moonlight, angry tears stinging the boy's eyes. But he shakes his head.

"You're—"

"No good to Sammy dead," Dean finished, his voice an accusation, "but I'm no good to Sammy _hiding_, either."

"He called _me_," Jack says. "Wait. Just wait."

"Harkness!" the man calls again. "You want his blood on your hands? Come out and face me! What are you afraid of? A little bullet?" The man laughs, and Jack feels cold all over.

He doesn't know what's going on, but he knows that he's been cornered. He can't leave Sam alone, can't do anything but what the man says. And the man knows him. Knows him _much_ better than he has any right to, more than anyone in this time and place has a right to, except Azazel, and it wouldn't make sense for Azazel to take Sam. But if Azazel ran his mouth to some other demon, who knows who could have taken the boy?

Jack steels his will, and turns to Dean, who is still glaring at him. "I'm going out," he says.

"He's going to shoot you," Dean says coldly, the _and it'll be what you deserve_ going unsaid but clearly communicated.

"I know," Jack says, and Dean's glare becomes a frown. Jack takes the boy by the shoulders and stares him right in the eye. "It doesn't matter what you see now, do you understand me? You take that dagger and you _run_. I'll get Sam. I promise. You run."

"How are you gonna save Sammy if you're dead?" Dean asks, and it's a very good question.

Jack stills, and presses his lips together. "You run," he says, "no matter what you see. You have to trust me. I'm going to get Sam back to you. I won't let them hurt him."

"Harkness, I'm giving you ten seconds or I go back and shoot the Winchester boy!" the man cries, and Dean surges forward, barely contained by all of Jack's strength. "Ten!"

"Look me in the eye and promise me you'll run," Jack says urgently. Dean tries to struggle away again, and Jack shakes him roughly. "_Promise_ me!"

"I promise!" Dean shouts, and Jack slowly lets him go.

"Seven!"

Jack backs away from Dean, his laser up, and winks at him. "Gotta have some faith," he says, and turns into the clearing.

His eyes have barely focused on the man before the gunshot rings, and it's the last thing Jack hears before the darkness comes.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Um. So over the course of last night after I went to bed and today, I got like _seven_ reviews for various stories. And I know that's not a big deal for some people, but I was _so excited_. It was like my birthday. So thanks to everybody who reviewed everything, and everybody who's following all my stories. It means a lot. :)

Okay so anyway here we go! Stuff is about to get really real, really fast.

* * *

Jack revives to the haunting sound of wind through broken slats.

He gives in to that shuddering back-from-the-grave gasp, and hears a sound to his left—a startled, sharp sound, an almost skittering sound. He hears ragged breathing, and something that sounds like a whimper from ahead of him. He hears the wind moaning through broken wood above him, and other than that, he hears a deep silence that underlies all of it. His chest throbs from the perfect shot to the heart that killed him (he wonders idly, unclearly, if the bullet was still embedded or if it went clean through, because if it's still in there he's going to have to get that taken care of; sepsis, he knows from experience, is a terrible way to die), and his mouth is dry and tastes like sand. He aches dully all over, and besides the gunshot wound there's a pain on his ribcage where he feels like something hard was pressed against it for a long period of time.

His eyes are taking a long time to adjust to the darkness, so he tries to use his other senses. The room smells of mold and decay, and wet wood. Lots of wet wood. A chill passes over him and he realizes that, just like he'd heard, it's wind. He's in an interior room, based on the direction that the wind's coming in, but there are holes in the structure. It's large. Large enough that the breathing and the whimpers echo through it briefly, as well as his pained grunt as he tries to move his arms. The wound in his chest doesn't like that, and he realizes that he's bound. He tries his legs. Bound. He squeezes his arms to his torso, feels rope. Bound around the waist. Trussed up. It's not a pleasant idea, but it's reality and it has to be faced.

He tilts his head back and accepts the pain, letting out his breath in a slow hiss. He blinks hard, trying to clear his eyes from their death-haze.

"Jack?"

He turns his head quickly towards the incredulous sound, and tenses in pain at the movement. He still can't see well, but he can make out a shape to his left where the breathing had been coming from. The voice...he knows that voice. _Focus, Harkness._ He knows that voice.

His heart sinks. He does know that voice. "Dean," he whispers, closing his eyes. "I told you to run."

"You _died_," Dean accuses. "You got shot in the heart. I saw you die. You didn't have a pulse."

"You were supposed to get out of there," Jack says through his teeth. "You—_dammit_, Dean."

His eyes begin to clear, and he can see from the grey silhouette that Dean is tied up, too, tied to his own chair a few yards away from Jack. He can see the wreckage of wood around the boy, but can't quite make out what it's from yet. "What are you?" Dean demands.

Jack's throat aches with the dull laughter it produces, and he winces even as he laughs. "Just like your dad," he says, knowing full well how that will sound to the kid and just unable to bring himself to care. He told Dean to run. He'd _ordered_ Dean to run. So the kid gets himself kidnapped. Perfect little soldier his ass. He wonders briefly if Dean gives his dad that much trouble.

As expected, Dean snaps to attention, glaring through the darkness at Jack. "What did you say?" he hisses.

Jack says nothing, breathing unevenly as the pain in his chest cries out to him that he tasted death again. As if he didn't know.

"Where's my dad, you son of a bitch?" Dean shouts, his question echoing through the ruined chamber.

Jack shouldn't be angry. He shouldn't be frustrated. He should understand that Dean is a child, and is afraid, and probably in pain. But Jack is in pain, too. Jack is afraid, too. So it's not in the kindest tone that he snaps back, "He's in the hospital, where I brought him after he tried to kill the Black Annis using nothing but a sonic blaster like an _idiot_. He's getting medical help. Like you should have."

"You _are_ the Jack that got killed in front of Dad," says Dean, and something bright and brittle is rising in his voice. "The Black Annis killed you."

"The Black Annis killed me, the Daleks killed me, Torchwood killed me, whoever this guy is killed me," Jack says dismissively. "I told you to run, no matter what you saw. I asked you to trust me."

There is silence for a while, and Jack shakes his head to clear it, trying to look around the room again. High ceilings, vaulted. Windows, or the spaces where windows had been, placed at regular intervals along the walls. A large, empty space ahead of him.

Well. Almost empty.

Sam Winchester lies on the floor in front of him, hands and feet bound, crumpled in a pitiful heap as he tries to curl in on himself. His breathing is even but shallow, and Jack realizes that the whimper he'd heard earlier had come from him. He twitches occasionally and lets out more whimpers, as though in the throes of a bad dream. Which wouldn't be really incomprehensible, given the circumstances. Jack turns to Dean. "Dean—Sammy—"

"He's asleep," Dean says flatly. "He woke up when they brought us here, but fell back asleep." Dean pauses, gathering his strength before adding, "I think they hurt him."

The suppressed emotion in Dean's voice makes it tremble, and Jack can't tell whether there's more rage or grief in that tremor. Jack ignores it because he knows Dean would want him to, and only asks, "They?"

Dean pauses, and Jack forces himself to look at the boy. Dean's head is hanging, looking strained as the ropes that bind him force his shoulders back flush against the chair. "There were two," he says.

Jack tilts his head back and glares at the splintering ceiling. "Stepping on each other's footprints," he says.

"One shot you, and once you were dead the other one carried you here over his shoulder," Dean continues. Jack grits his teeth: that does explain the pain in his ribs, but that means that there's a big one. "The one who shot you grabbed me while I was checking your pulse."

"Instead of running," Jack says with a note of scolding.

"Instead of running," Dean agrees wearily.

Jack moves to raise his arm, intending to pass it over his face, but he remembers that he's tied down. His chest aches, but not as much as his stomach does with the thought that he can't defend the boys if one of their captors tries to harm them.

He lets out the breath he's been holding, and looks at Dean, who's watching sleeping Sam with solemn eyes. "Hey, Dean," he says quietly. The kid looks up at him. "Do you know where they are now? And did they say anything to you, on the way here?"

Dean shifts in his chair, and sucks in a breath. He looks like he's tied down pretty tight. Jack figures he probably struggled mightily the whole way here, just like he did when Jack tried to get him to stay away from the shooter. The kid's strong, and their captors undoubtedly realize that. They wouldn't risk him getting away. Not after they went through so much trouble to lure him here.

"They didn't say much," he says, "but they said they were going to pray, once they had us tied down. They went outside, out the front. They said that they needed to pray now that the task was done."

Jack lets that sink in for a minute, and then nods. "Okay. No, okay. That's not entirely bad news."

Dean looks skeptical. "Really?" he asks.

"They said the task is done," Jack says, and Dean shrugs his assent. "That means that the task _wasn't_ killing any of us. The task was bringing us here. So we're probably not in any danger from the two of them."

"Right, until whatever they're _praying_ to comes," Dean replies darkly. "I'm guessing by _praying_ they really mean _summoning_."

Jack frowns up at the ceiling. "Can't be the Black Annis, even if I missed one. They don't have any psychic abilities and wouldn't be able to pick up a thought transmission, and they're fully corporeal anyway so they couldn't just be _summoned_."

"It's a demon," Dean says, a little cross, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world and Jack is being an idiot.

Jack shakes his head. "I don't think it's a demon, Dean," he says.

"The demons hate my family," Dean insists. "A demon killed my mom. I know the difference between monsters and demons. Monsters don't plan. This is a demon."

"I know what happened to your family," Jack says softly. "And I don't doubt that you've got demons on your tail, Dean, I don't. But I just don't think it's a demon this time."

"Why not?" Dean demands.

_Because the demons already told me they're on my side_, Jack thinks, and there isn't even a split second where he believes that would be something useful to say out loud. Another thought occurs to him, though, and he whispers, "Dean, do you still have what I gave you back at the car?"

Dean frowns, and then his face clears and he nods. "Yeah," he whispers back. "They didn't even check me for weapons. I still have my gun, too. I don't think they took your stuff, either."

Dean seems pleased by this turn of events, but Jack's heart sinks. They didn't take their weapons or even frisk them. They knew who he was, and Jack is sure they knew who Dean was, too. The only reason that they'd let them keep their weapons is if they so firmly believed guns and knives wouldn't do them any good that they didn't even think it was worth the time. And for two humans to believe that of the undying man and his trigger-happy sociopathic teenage sidekick, they must have some powerful back-up on the way.

Jack leans as far as he can to get as close to Dean as possible, and Dean picks up on the gesture and leans in as well. "I want you to start working on loosening the ropes," Jack says, and Dean nods. "Whoever's got us here is going to come back for us soon. Whatever happens to me, and now you understand why I say that, I want you to take the dagger I gave you and get Sammy out of here. Don't confront the thing if you don't have to, and _do not wait for me_. I'm assuming you know how to hot wire a car?"

"Yeah," Dean replies instantly. Jack sighs, just a little.

"I don't know why I asked. Okay. You take the dagger, wave it at whatever it is they're summoning outside, grab Sammy and run and you don't look back. Can you do that for me, Dean? Can you really do that this time?"

It takes Dean a moment to respond, as he studies Jack's face carefully. Jack doesn't push him, doesn't rush him, but his teeth are on edge as he keeps imagining he's heard the door open. Finally, after an eternity, Dean swallows hard and says, "Why would you do that?"

"Dean—"

"Seriously. Just answer me. Why would you let yourself be killed, _more than once_, for me and Sammy? I mean, forget our mysterious so-called friend who sent you, nobody does that." Dean's brow furrows, and he bites his lip, hard. "_Nobody_ does that. Not just for a friend."

Jack shrugs lightly, and looks over at Sam's prone figure on the floor. Dean follows his eyeline and winces. "You'd do it for him," Jack says gently.

Dean scoffs. "Well, yeah. Sammy's my brother. He's _family_. You do that kind of thing for family."

Jack takes a moment, and smiles a sad smile. "Family doesn't mean blood, Dean," he says. Dean turns to him. "Family can be bigger than that."

Jack can't make out too much in the dim light, but he's pretty sure that Dean is rolling his eyes at him. "Yeah," the kid says. "'Cause me and Sammy are your family."

"Not you and Sammy," Jack says. "Our friend."

That stops Dean cold. He moves his mouth a few times, and then stills, looking down at his feet. Eventually, he says, "You care so much about that guy that you'd die for someone you don't even know, just because he _asked_ you to?"

Jack chuckles, and shrugs. "He means enough to me that I'd follow his directions to save two innocent boys from being murdered, no matter what it cost me," Jack explains. "On his word alone, yes."

"Not exactly innocent," Dean mutters, and Jack is startled by the depths of emotion in those three words. He frowns at the boy. Is that really what Dean thinks of himself?

"Yes," Jack says firmly. "Innocent."

Dean doesn't reply.

Jack sighs, and says, "Now that that's out of the way, can you promise me that you'll take Sammy out of here as soon as I've got whatever it is that's coming distracted? The dagger should protect you, but you've got to get going as soon as you can."

Dean nods, then looks down and to his right, biting his lip in concentration. He gives a grunt of effort, and then relaxes. When he looks back up at Jack, it's with a grin. "I think I've got the ropes most of the way," he says. Then he sobers. "Yeah. Yeah, I promise I'll take Sammy and run."

Jack goes limp with relief, ignoring the pain of the ropes that are still biting into his flesh. "Good," he says softly. "Good, Dean."

They sit in silence for a moment, the quiet broken only by the occasional pitiful whimper from Sam. Jack wriggles in his bonds, trying to buy himself some space, but stops when he hears Dean whisper, "Hey, Jack?"

"Yeah?" he says, turning to face the boy, who's not looking at him.

"If I don't get another chance to say it," the boy begins.

He's cut off by the doors opening, flying wide, and Jack struggles to turn to see what's behind him. It's no use; he hasn't gotten the ropes that loose yet.

The wind seems to have intensified, and the remnants of the shattered roof are shuddering wildly, causing a racket that wakes Sam. The boy tries to sit up, but his bound limbs don't cooperate and he just struggles on the ground for a minute, crying, "Dean!"

"I'm here, Sammy!" Dean cries back. "I'm right here!" Sam lets out a desperate, wordless sound, trying still to sit up, fighting against his useless limbs. Jack's heart sinks as he watches the boy struggle. He's in pain; he's not fighting as hard as he could, given his full capacities. Dean was right. They did hurt him. Something's wrong with his core, maybe his ribs.

The wind quiets, and there are footsteps behind Jack. He is perfectly still, waiting for his assailant to show his face. The footsteps stop right behind him, and he valiantly resists the urge to look behind himself. He sets his jaw and stares straight ahead of him.

"Mister Harkness."

The voice is that of a woman, which surprises Jack. Perhaps it's some borrowed parochial instinct from this century, but he wouldn't have guessed that a woman would be responsible for the Winchesters' abduction. Particularly since it does appear that Dean is right, and they did hurt Sam. He doesn't look back. He grins and says, "It's _Captain_ Harkness, thanks."

The woman laughs, low and throaty. "It's not, and we both know it," she says, and Jack's jovial façade drops away abruptly. "It's not even Harkness, but even my contacts don't know what your name is."

"Jack Harkness is good enough for purposes," Jack says, his voice tight now. "You gonna stay back there, or do I get to see my captor's face? I bet it's a pretty one."

The woman says nothing, but he can hear her footfalls behind him as she walks to his left. Walks towards Dean.

"You leave him alone," Jack shouts, and someone cuffs him sharply on the head. He grunts, and figures it's one of the humans. He wouldn't have necessarily heard them coming in over all that wind. He ignores the blow, and says, "Get away from him!"

He turns his head in time to see the woman, her back facing him, stand in front of Dean. He can barely make out the boy's expression, but he can see that there is defiance in it, barely masking terror. The woman's head tilts to the side, and she lifts a hand, two fingers extended as though in benediction.

"Don't you touch him!" Jack bellows, but the woman's fingers rest between Dean's eyebrows, and he slumps over, his chin coming to rest against his chest.

Jack stares in horror. He's failed. All this effort, all this pain, and he's failed. Dean Winchester is dead.

The woman turns around, and he glares desperately at her. She has a narrow face, deceptively pretty features, polished red hair. She looks like any other pretty young woman, but there is something in her eyes, something old and awesome in the most traditional sense of the world. "You monster," he growls. "He's a kid. He was just a boy."

The woman looks bored, and walks casually towards Jack. "The boy's not dead, Harkness," she says, and Jack feels like his heart has stopped, although that's not a phrase he tosses around. "Just sleeping." She changes course and walks over to Sam, who stares up at her in undisguised fear. She hesitates, and her fingers don't linger on his forehead as she puts him to sleep, as well.

She turns back to Jack, who spits, "I won't let you hurt them."

The woman studies him appraisingly. "You don't get to _let_ me do anything, Mister Harkness," she says coolly. She walks up to him, and he keeps eye contact with her the whole way. What is she? Not human, he knows that much. Not entirely. Like Azazel, the shell is human, but what's inside is most definitely anything but. And yet she doesn't strike him as a demon. Something else.

She stops right in front of him, their knees practically touching, as she continues to rake him with her eyes. There's nothing sexual about it; Jack knows that kind of looking-over quite well, and this is not it. She's sizing him up for something. "I will fight you to my last breath before I let you lay a hand on them," he says softly. It's not a threat; it's a promise.

The woman leans over, bending down to his eye level. "They are the last thing you should be worried about, Mister Harkness," she breathes.

Jack pulls away, furrowing his brow.

"Whatever you were told," she says, "I am not here to kill the Winchesters. That is not the plan."

"Then what?" Jack asks.

The woman straightens, smoothing down the front of her blouse. "I'm here to kill _you_," she says.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: First, thanks so much for such a positive response to the last chapter! I really do love hearing from y'all. :)

Second...I hope this chapter makes sense. I'm afraid there's lots of Whovian jargon, but upon rereading it before uploading it I think it's understandable. Don't be afraid to let me know if it's not. But I hope it is.

Anyway, allons-y!

* * *

Jack is keeping calm.

(Because Jack Harkness is not the kind of man who panics.)

He summons up every iota of confidence that he has in him and shoots the woman the most dazzling grin he's produced yet, and says, "That's gonna be harder than it looks, sweet heart."

The woman smiles at him, but there's nothing resembling amusement or friendliness in the pull of her lips. "I know," she replies. "That's why I brought you here. If I could have, I would have killed you without you ever knowing about it, met you in a grocery store, found you at your precious Torchwood, come to you as you slept in your bed. But the conditions need to be precise. And I need your undivided attention."

"I'm not sure you understand," Jack says, sad to have to ignore the obvious joke in _come to you as you slept in your bed_ as she rolls up the sleeves of her blouse. A sick resignation sets over him at the action; whatever's going to happen next isn't likely to be pleasant. "I can't die. People have tried. For years."

"One hundred and twenty-five years," the woman agrees, and Jack goes still. "Don't underestimate me, Mister Harkness. I know all about you. I wouldn't have come here unprepared. And the people who've tried to kill you in the past aren't me."

Her sleeves are now rolled up to her elbows, and she holds out a hand. One of the human men runs up to her with a wicked-looking knife with what looks like an ivory handle, engraved with some kind of rune that Jack hasn't seen before. It's ceremonial, no doubt about it. A ritual.

"You have a name?" Jack asks.

The woman runs a reverent finger over the side of the blade, and looks up. "I do," she says plainly.

Jack laughs through his frustration. "Look, I know you don't have my real one, but you have something to call me. Can I have something to call you?"

The woman regards him for a long moment, perfectly still with the knife in her hands. "Anna," she replies after an eternity. "You can call me Anna."

Anna seems to be done at that, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "So, Anna," Jack says quickly, "Why take the Winchesters, then? If this is about me and you, or me and your employers, or whatever it is, why bring them into it?" She opens her eyes with a disapproving expression.

"Precautions," she says, her voice crisp and efficient. "If this is to work there is no room for error."

"But what do they have to do with _me_?" Jack insists. "I didn't even know them four days ago. Did you just use them to bring me here from Cardiff? Even if I had to be here for you to kill me good and proper, you really couldn't have thought of a better way to lure me over than to put two kids in danger?"

Anna's gaze is unwavering and unemotional. The faintest trace of a smile creeps onto her face. "There is so much you don't understand," she says, and there is something in her voice, some terrible hint of deserved superiority that brings to mind how small and childlike Jack always feels in the presence of the Doctor's vast knowledge, and it frightens and angers him all at once.

Jack shrugs and shakes his head, grinning wide. "Then enlighten me," he replies. "I'm always up to learning new things. And while you're at it, why don't you tell me what you are? Because despite that pretty girl you're wearing, you're not human."

"You're perceptive," she says, her smile taking on a tinge of amusement. "You're also right, Mister Harkness."

"Really, _Jack_ is fine," Jack says magnanimously.

Anna shrugs. "Jack, then. No, I'm not human."

"Not a demon, either," Jack says. "Something else. Made a pretty grand entrance."

"No," Anna says, and there's something that's almost a laugh in her voice, like church bells. "Not a demon. You're in good hands, Jack. I regret that it comes to this, but your life goes to the service of a greater cause."

"Yeah?" Jack asks. "Such as?"

The wind rises again and lightning flashes, and Jack sees..._something_. Behind Anna. (Wings, his brain tells him, _wings_.) Something he can't make out. (_Wings._)

Something. He can't make it out.

Jack shivers.

"I'm an angel of the Lord, Jack Harkness," Anna says, and there are voices behind her voice and whispers surrounding her telling Jack that if he could hear _her_ voice, not the voice of the pretty girl she was wearing, he'd probably wake up several hours later with another KIA to his name, "and your death will help to win the final battle for the armies of God."

Jack finds that he's breathing hard, and his limbs are trembling. He grits his teeth to calm himself, and says, "You're talking about the Apocalypse."

Anna nods. "The end of days."

It's not in Jack's nature to admit when he's lost. He keeps up a stoic face in front of the Doctor; he won't do less in front of this woman. Angel. Something. "What do _I_ have to do with the Apocalypse?" he asks.

"Nothing," Anna says. "Not directly. But great events happen one tiny push at a time. And you are one such push. A pivotal one."

"Something I do is going to trigger it?" he asks. He doesn't believe it. He doesn't believe in the Apocalypse, in angels and demons, not like that. Demons are refugees from the Time War, he _knows_ that. The Doctor told him that.

Rose hadn't asked about angels.

Anna quirks an eyebrow. "You are giving yourself a lot of credit, Jack," she says, putting a delicate, mocking emphasis on his name. "You don't trigger the Apocalypse. But you do hand a hell of a gun over to Lucifer."

Jack inhales slowly, pensively, and nods his head. "Right. _Lucifer_."

There's an energy that crackles in the air, and Jack realizes after a moment that's Anna getting angry. He doesn't shrink back, but it takes a little doing to refrain. When she speaks, it is through gritted teeth. (He wonders idly if the girl came with that mannerism or if it's one Anna has adopted.) "You will learn to believe, Jack Harkness."

"Thought you were gonna kill me," Jack says idly.

"Before that, you will learn to believe," Anna returns. "If only just before."

She lifts the knife.

"You didn't answer my question," Jack complains.

She lowers the knife with a glare.

"About the Winchesters," Jack continues. "So I'm going to help the Devil win the Apocalypse or something. Why the kids? Why'd you have to hurt Sam? Doesn't seem terribly angelic. And why bring in the Black Annis to try to do your dirty work?"

"I didn't _bring_ the Black Annis," Anna says, sounding irritated. "They were here anyway. I knew John Winchester would bring his boys here to deal with the Black Annis. And I knew you'd show up to protect the boys."

"Is that a problem?" Jack asks. "I mean, if you've got to kill me to stop the Apocalypse or win the Apocalypse or whatever it is you want to do, you couldn't wait for me to save the boys first?"

"That's not what this is about," Anna says, and Jack has had enough.

"Then tell me what it's about," he demands. "Explain it to me. I know I'm just human, I know I have a limited understanding, tiny brain, narrow scope, but I have a lot more years and a lot more experience than most humans you'll come across. If you're going to kill me, you owe me an explanation. Tell me what's going on. Tell me what this has to do with the boys, and tell me how you forged that letter 'from the Doctor' well enough to convince _me_."

If he chokes a little on the last words, Anna is kind enough to ignore it.

Her face is painted with confusion. "Letter?"

"The letter you wrote to get me here," he spits. "The one that you made to look like it was written by the Doctor, saying the boys were in danger."

"I didn't write a letter," Anna says. "I knew you would be here, now, and so I met you."

"That's likely," Jack laughs, his voice harsh. But then he stops. He breathes deeply, narrowing his eyes as he looks at Anna.

There's a taste on the air, something bright and electric and a little coppery. So faint he'd missed it in the whirl of sensory experience he'd been having (like his chest throbbing and Sam whimpering and the smell of mold hanging in the air and Dean shouting at him, and what he wouldn't give to be able to focus on those again). But he knows that taste, knows the way it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up a little.

"You're a time traveler," he says quietly. Anna says nothing. "You're covered in artron energy; you _reek_ of it. You knew I'd be here because when you're from, I've already been here. You're trying to create a paradox."

"A stable time loop," Anna corrects.

"No," Jack says. "Because I _bet_ you didn't hear 'Anna went back in time to stop Jack from ending the world'. I bet you heard 'Jack saved the Winchester boys on May second, 1994 in Romney, West Virginia.' And that's all. Isn't it? And if you kill me, I can't save the Winchesters, and so you never hear that I saved the Winchesters. Game, set, paradox."

"It won't be when I finish this," Anna says, and if it's a threat it's a hesitant one. "Doesn't your Doctor say that time can be rewritten?"

Jack's laugh is acid. "Yeah," he says. "But if you didn't send the letter, then he did, and he sent me to stop a paradox. I'm starting to think that this is it. Tell me, what is plan B?"

"There is no plan B." Anna's voice is tense.

Jack shakes his head, exuding disappointment. "Yeah, Anna. There is. There's always a plan B. You're too good for there not to be a plan B. I get away. You can't figure out how to kill me. One of your henchmen betrays you. I don't know. What's plan B, Anna?"

"There isn't—"

"_What's plan B, Anna?_" Jack shouts, and all the anger and fear and frustration come pouring out of him. "I'm not stupid!"

Anna sets her jaw and strides over to Sam, unconscious on the floor. A chill falls over Jack and he says, "Wait, wait. Just hold on."

Anna crouches by Sam and cocks her head to the side. "What do you see when you look at this boy, Jack Harkness?" she asks.

Jack hopes he's not getting the answer wrong when he says, "An innocent kid. A little boy with, I don't know, artron sensitivity. He's scared, Anna, like his brother. Please, let them go."

"An innocent kid," Anna echoes thoughtfully. She laughs under her breath. "Not exactly innocent," she says.

Jack suppresses a shudder.

"Do you know what I see when I look at him?" she asks, and Jack shakes his head. "I see Samuel Winchester. Lucifer's future vessel. The instrument of the destruction of the world, the hand that triggers the end-times. I see the boy with so many bloods mixed in his own that I can't see how he could possibly count as human anymore." She glances up at Jack. "Artron sensitive? No, Jack. I wonder that your Doctor didn't tell you what he did to this boy."

Jack tries to juggle the ideas that Anna has thrown at him but can't, can feel them slipping, and knows that he can't fight the only question that could possibly pass his lips: "What did the Doctor do?"

Anna rocks back on her heels, studying Sam. "The boy has Time Lord blood in him," she says.

Jack stops breathing.

"At six months old a demon came to him, a demon filled with the blood of your Time Lord friend, and bled into Samuel," she continues. "His brain was changed by it. Made open. He has the neurobiology of a Time Lord in the body of a human. Synaptic connections are made so quickly in his brain that he can barely keep up with it. Right now it's just manifesting in his excellent grades in school and his irrepressible curiosity. Later, it will manifest as his ability to open his mind to Lucifer and serve as his vessel."

"That's not possible," Jack whispers.

Anna shrugs, the tightness in her shoulders belying the casual nature of the gesture. "It's not. Not yet. Because it is only a quarter to midnight, and tomorrow is Samuel's eleventh birthday."

She stands and turns to Jack, her arms crossed. "How much do you know about the childhood of a Time Lord, Jack?" she asks.

"Only legend," Jack replies. "Most of it was lost in the Time War, but you know that. The Doctor hasn't really waxed lyrical about his upbringing, if that's what you mean."

"Do you know what happened to them, when they turned eight?" Anna asks. Jack says nothing, doesn't move. Anna sighs. "They were forced to look into the Untempered Schism. Into the heart of the Vortex, unfiltered, to see the fabric of time and space itself. It's said that this experience was pivotal in the evolution and development of their species."

"Do angels believe in evolution?" Jack quips.

Anna ignores him. "A Gallifreyan child must look into the Schism to truly become a Time Lord, and it must happen in their eighth year."

A feeling akin to nausea begins to rise in Jack as he starts to understand. "Sam's not eight. He's eleven. If he had to be exposed to the Vortex, it's too late."

Anna shakes her head. "Sam's human biology is fighting the Time Lord blood's reconstruction of his brain," she says. "His humanity is limiting him, and he's developing more slowly than a true Time Lord would. His brain is only now reaching the point in his development where he needs the Vortex to progress."

Jack refuses to understand. "I don't...what does that have to do with me?"

Anna looks down at Sam, and through her placid façade Jack can see fear and disgust. "This boy is destined to kill the world," she says softly. "The abilities given to him by his Time Lord biology will enable him to do that. Without exposure to the Vortex, he'll never finish developing. He'll never be able to become what he was meant to be." She looks back at Jack, her eyes hard. "You, Jack Harkness, are the only source of Vortex energy that Sam could possibly encounter in his eleventh year."

Jack realizes he's shaking his head. Everything is shaking, a little. "_Vortex_ energy?" he cries. "My vortex manipulator broke more than a century ago. And anyway, that's not how it works. You don't—"

"Not your toy, Jack," Anna interrupts sharply. "You." She stops, and tilts her head again. "You don't know."

"That's becoming increasingly obvious," Jack says, trying for a laugh but ending up with only a hoarse cough.

Anna walks up to him, and, with a slim, cool finger, tilts his chin up so that he meets her eyes. "Your inability to die is a gift of the Vortex," she says. "You are filled with the energy of time and space, filled to bursting. And if Sam is exposed to that energy, it will trigger his altered neurobiology and he will be all but unstoppable."

"So you're going to kill me before I can expose Sam to Vortex energy," Jack says slowly. Anna nods, and he swallows hard. "If I hadn't...if the Doctor hadn't sent me here, today, what would you have done to stop Sam from being exposed to the Vortex? If I hadn't been here...would you have known what could have done it?"

Anna hesitates, but her expression softens and she shakes her head. "Probably not," she says, and her voice is more gentle. She's heard it in Jack's voice. She's heard the acceptance.

"What would you have done?" Jack presses.

Anna straightens, and says, "I would have killed Sam Winchester to ensure that Lucifer doesn't obtain his vessel."

"And Dean?" Jack asks.

"I would not have harmed Dean," Anna says, but Jack remembers the Doctor's words.

_This is about Samuel. Dean is collateral damage._

Dean would never have let her kill his brother, not without making damn sure he died protecting him.

Jack smiles as everything falls into place.

"If I hadn't been here for you to kill, you would have killed Sam," Jack says softly.

Anna nods. "I would have had no choice."

Jack nods in return. "Okay."

Anna's smile is soft and light and peaceful, and Jack relaxes into his chair. She pulls up the knife that she's been holding and begins to whisper to it.

As she does, Jack says, "Hey, one more thing." She looks up. "What does _all are pash_ mean?"

She frowns, then her face clears. "_Allar pash_," she corrects. "Enochian. Bind the children. It ensured that Samuel and Dean couldn't fight."

Jack shrugs one shoulder, and Anna goes back to her chanting.

Jack looks over at Dean, still slumped in his seat, his breath deep and rhythmic. He smiles again at the sight of him, at the knowledge that Anna will leave them be once he's dead. Dean and Sam will be able to grow up. They'll be better off because Jack had been there.

And he'll be able to rest.

The thought arises independently, but Jack doesn't fight it. This woman, this thing, this Anna, says she can end him once and for all. He's not sure if she's telling the truth, if she really _can_ kill him, but she seems pretty certain. And there's a part of him, a not insignificant part, that longs for that.

Jack isn't suicidal. But Jack is tired.

Anna stops chanting, and Jack looks up at her. She holds the blade out for him to see. "This will separate your soul from your body," she says. "And I will scatter the atoms of your physical form throughout the universe, where they can't be reassembled. You won't be able to come back. I promise you."

Jack nods, and takes a deep breath. He grins at her, that famous grin of his, that grin that has gotten him out of so many tight squeezes.

It's the last time he'll smile that way, he thinks. It's the last time he'll do anything.

"Grant the Undying Man a dying wish?" he asks.

Anna waits.

Jack looks up at her, a look cast from beneath his lashes in a way that he's never met anyone who could resist. "A good-bye kiss?"

Anna hesitates.

Then she drops her arm to her side, approaches him, and cups his cheek in her free hand, pulling his face up to her, and their lips meet.

It's short, electric, warm, and so peaceful Jack almost falls asleep in its brief duration. He knows, in that moment, that she's pretty much as far from human as he's met. And in her inhumanity, there is something old and comforting, something that soothes him.

When she pulls away, Jack is grinning again. "Thanks, sweet heart," he says, and means it.

She smooths his hair back, and smiles in return. "You're welcome, Captain Harkness," she says, and raises the dagger over her head.

Jack closes his eyes and waits for rest.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: I think there's one more chapter after this one of this story, and then I'm going to dive in to the next multi-chapter. I don't feel like there are any one-shots in between, this time, but I could be mistaken.

I had a lot of feelings about this chapter, and it makes me wish the story was longer, but they'll see each other again and I don't want to drag things out after the plot has concluded. I hope you enjoy as much as I did.

* * *

Jack keeps waiting.

And waiting.

After what he feels is an appropriate interval in which an angel (_really_? his brain asks, _are we buying that?_) should have been able to bring a knife down on a willing human, he opens one eye.

Then he opens both, wide.

Dean is standing behind Anna, the dagger that Azazel gave Jack pressed against the space between her shoulder blades. The dagger's long enough that given the right angle, it could pierce her heart.

Jack and Anna both know Dean will manage the right angle.

The boy looks queasy, almost hung over, probably an after-effect of whatever Anna did to knock him out. His eyes are heavy-lidded, but his jaw is set and his hand is steady. "Drop the knife, bitch," he says, his voice low.

"Call off your boy wonder, Jack," Anna says tightly. Jack can see the anger in her, but it's warring with genuine fear as her eyes dart repeatedly between Dean, the dagger, and Jack.

Azazel had told the truth. The dagger really _could_ kill Anna, whatever she is.

"Dean," Jack says, and the boy turns wild, wide eyes to him. With effort he visibly calms himself, and nods to Jack with an air of professional efficiency.

"Go ahead, get up," he says. "I've got her."

Jack shakes his head, feeling a sad smile rise onto his face. "Dean. Put the dagger away. It's okay."

Dean narrows his eyes, and Jack can see that his breathing is picking up, getting quick and irregular. He tries to smile reassuringly, not sure how to explain to the boy that he needs to leave Jack here to die, that it's what Jack wants, that it's enough for him and his brother to live. "Dean, it's all right. It's okay. Don't panic. Take Sammy and get out of here. I think this is why I'm here, okay?"

Dean scowls at Jack, and Jack sees his arm move. From the arch of Anna's back, he's pressed the blade a little harder against her. "You don't get to die for us," Dean snaps. "Not again. That's not the way this works."

"This time, it is," Jack says quietly. "Let somebody else take the hit, just this once, kid. Let somebody help you."

Dean took a breath to protest, and Jack fixed him with a hard glare. "This is an order, Dean. Stand down. Take your brother and go."

"Jack—"

Jack lowers his head with a weary sigh, and hears the soft snap of rotten wood against a sneaker. He looks up, and sees that Dean has taken a step away from Anna. The woman turns to gaze at him with cold eyes, but Dean doesn't look at her. He backs up slowly, keeping his eyes on Jack, until finally he is next to Sam. He kneels by his brother, still watching Jack.

Jack, in turn, looks up to Anna, who has shifted her grip on the ceremonial knife. "Not until they're gone," he whispers. "Don't make them watch this."

Anna nods, and turns to watch the brothers.

Dean nudges Sam, who whimpers in response. "Sammy," he whispers, obviously uncomfortable under the attention of the adults. (Jack figures he's not used to much adult supervision, much less any that's not his father's.) When Sam doesn't move, Dean pushes him a little harder. "Hey, Sammy, come on, we gotta go, man, get up."

Jack is watching the boys, a small smile on his face, thinking that it's fitting and good that the last thing he should see in life is the two boys he's helped save escape, but the smile begins to fade when Sam still doesn't move. Dean is shaking him gently, but as the moments pass the movements are becoming more and more panicked, and rougher.

Finally Sam shifts, then cries out, a quiet, mewling sound. "Dean," he whimpers, and it sounds like a prayer. He winces, curling in around his core, and says, "I can't...can't stand up. It _hurts,_ Dean."

Dean instantly goes into field medic mode, cutting the bonds that tie Sam's feet and wrists with the blade intended to kill Anna, and lying him flat on his back. Sam protests weakly throughout the whole process, but doesn't fight his brother. Jack glares up at Anna. "Your men did this," he says.

Anna doesn't meet Jack's eyes, but studies the brothers warily. "They were, perhaps, over-enthusiastic in their handling of the boy," she admits, and Jack laughs in disbelief. That makes her turn, and the gaze she fixes him with is as wary as it had been for the boys.

"Over-enthusiastic?" Jack echoes. "Fix him. Fix him _now_ or the deal is off."

Anna cocks her head. "_Deal_? There's no _deal_, Jack Harkness. There's me, killing you, and saving the world."

"And first, you're gonna fix that boy," Jack says, and he can hear his voice lowering, getting darker. There's a rage he hasn't known before that's bubbling in his chest, and he realizes, like a revelation, why the Doctor sent him here.

He can't think about that now.

"I don't need your cooperation, only your death," Anna says, and raises the knife above her head. "And that, you will give me."

"Fix him!"

Dean's voice, raw and wrathful, echoes around the building, and Jack and Anna both turn to him. He's got the dagger raised like a javelin, and while every twitch of his muscles screams his reluctance to leave his brother, he's walking toward Anna. "You fix my brother. You did this. You fix him."

Anna glares at Dean, and then at Jack, but lowers the knife and follows Dean back to where Sam is waiting, eyes wide, breath quick and shallow at Anna's approach.

"Dean—" he cries, and Dean is quick to shush him, crouching at his brother's side.

"'Sokay, Sammy. She's gonna fix you," Dean promises, and the words are as much a threat to Anna as a reassurance to his brother. Anna glances at him, unamused, and kneels by Sam's face.

She puts a hand to his forehead.

The entire chamber is filled with light—_ruined church_, Jack thinks, and almost laughs; _if things get dark, Jack, be like Sam, and keep the faith,_ the Doctor had said—and Jack hears a pained cry from ahead of him, but it's not coming from Sam. Anna stands unsteadily and staggers back as the light fades, clutching her hand like it's been burned.

Dean's calling his brother's name, and Sam is responding weakly, and Jack is struggling to finish untying himself. "Anna!" he shouts. "What happened? Anna!"

Anna hisses through her teeth as she holds her right wrist, examining her hand. It's a mess of burns, red and blistering, and Jack winces in sympathy at the sight of it. "It's starting," she says. "It's midnight. His brain is crying out for the Vortex. It latched onto the traces of artron energy in me, and it...tried to access the Vortex _through_ me. He almost ripped my Grace out."

Jack stills, except for his hands, which keep trying to undo his bonds. "That's...not normal, right?" he asks.

Anna glares daggers at him. "No, Jack, there's nothing normal about a human child craving access to the Vortex," she says bitterly, "there's nothing normal _at all_ about Sam Winchester. This is not how it happens with Time Lords, but his...circuits are crossed, you could say. Regardless, I can't touch him. He'll kill me."

Dean's calling his name, now, and Jack looks up. "Jack, _please_, help him," Dean is crying, as the ropes fall from around Jack's wrists.

And Jack realizes that he has no choice.

He unties the rope around his waist, unties his ankles, and stands up, ignoring the pain in his chest and the warning bells going off in his head.

Anna is coming to stop him. "I won't let you do this," she says.

Jack holds out his hand, and with a seamlessness, a practiced lack of hesitance that speaks to his upbringing, Dean throws him the dagger. He hefts it, and Anna stops cold. "You don't get to _let_ me do anything, Anna," he says quietly. She's still gripping her hand, and looks desperate.

"You'll be responsible for allowing Lucifer's victory," she threatens. "I'm talking about the _Apocalypse_, Jack. The end of days. Evil reigning on Earth. Do you want that? Do you want to be responsible for that?"

Jack shrugs, a gesture too careless for the situation, but the weight he feels on his shoulders needs shifting. "You said I'd learn to believe before this was all over," he says. "That you'd teach me belief. But I already believe, Anna. I believe really, really strongly."

He walks over to Sam, and Dean makes way for him so that he can have better access to his brother, and that movement is the strongest gesture of trust that anyone has ever shown to him and he _knows_ in that moment that he is making the right call.

"It's just that my higher power is the Doctor," Jack says, and through Anna's wince at his blasphemy he continues, "and I'm here on a mission from him. I have faith. In the Doctor, and in these boys."

Sam is watching him fearfully, but there's a longing in his eyes, too. Jack sits and smiles at the boy while Dean keeps guard with the dagger that Jack returns to him, in case Anna should try anything. "Hey, Sam," Jack says softly.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asks, his voice barely more than a breath. "You don't feel right, in my head."

"I know," Jack says. "I'm okay. You're gonna be okay, too. Do you trust me, Sam?"

Sam doesn't reply, and Jack moves his hand closer to the boy's face. Sam jerks away, his eyes wide and his heart thudding. Jack backs away and Dean puts a hand on his brother's leg, calming him. "Don't touch me," Sam breathes fearfully.

Jack exchanges a look with Dean, and past the sinking of his stomach says, "It's okay, Sam. I'm not going to hurt you."

"He's gonna help you, Sammy," Dean chimes in.

"No," Sam says, looking at Jack, his voice stronger with effort but still trembling with emotion, "I'm gonna hurt _you_. Like I hurt her."

Jack pauses, then reaches down and puts his hands around Sam's right hand. Sam looks down at their clasped hands in fear, but when nothing happens, he relaxes. "You can't hurt me, Sam," Jack says firmly, and Sam looks up at him in wonder. "You can't hurt me."

Sam's posture, tense with pain and anxiety, softens on the floor as he closes his eyes. Jack thinks he can see a trace of a smile on the boy's face. "Okay," Sam whispers. "Okay."

Jack places his palm over Sam's forehead.

"When the Apocalypse begins, I will make sure you are there to witness it," Anna calls from across the room. "I will make sure you see what you've done."

Jack smiles at Sam. "You know, my whole life, I always wished I'd been on the side of the angels," he says thoughtfully. He turns to Anna and winks. "Now, I'm kind of glad I wasn't."

Jack presses his hand firmly against Sam's brow, and lets go of his control.

Sam gasps beneath his hand, and Jack can feel the boy's mind opening to receive the energy of the Vortex, to achieve access. All Jack is doing is feeding his own regenerative energy into Sam, but he knows that Sam is taking that energy, doing something else with it. He doesn't understand it, and it's something that takes his breath away.

"I can see _all_ of it," Sam says reverently. "Everything."

"What's wrong with him?" Dean cries. "Jack? What's wrong with him?"

Jack can't respond. His body, his mind is barely keeping up with Sam's mind's demands for _more, more, more_. Whatever it is that keeps him alive and brings him back to life after each gunshot, stab wound, and dose of poison is flooding out of him, never diminishing but always rushing out, into Sam as the boy takes the raw material and spins it into a view into the Vortex.

Jack can almost see it, too. Black and swirling and terrible and beautiful. _Eight years old_, he thinks mournfully as his mind shrinks back from the sight in awe. _Eleven years old._

"There's so much," Sam says, and his voice is so calm. Jack knows that what he's seeing isn't what the Doctor saw, what the Time Lords saw, but it's so much for one little human boy and Sam's voice is so calm. "This is everything there is, isn't it?"

Jack can't answer him, either, but he thinks, _I don't know, Sam._

Sam sighs, and it's a happier sound than Jack has heard come from the younger Winchester yet. Jack can see, out of the corner of his eye, as Dean relaxes at the sound of that sigh, sits back a little, his hand never leaving Sam's leg. He watches his brother's face carefully, waiting for some sign that things have gone wrong, some sign that he needs to intervene.

Sam's eyes are darting around like he's reading something on a heads-up display, and they are wide with wonder. The movements begin to slow down, begin to trail off, and finally his wandering eyes still and fall on Jack. A smile blossoms on his face, a real, _genuine_ smile, and maybe whatever's wrong with Jack can be overlooked because he says, "Thanks, Jack. I think you fixed me."

Jack gently removes his hand from Sam's forehead, and sits back on his heels. "I hope so, Sammy," he says, and is surprised to see the boy frown.

But the expression is petulant, not hurt or afraid, and the boy says, "It's not Sammy. It's _Sam._"

Dean bursts out into relieved, almost hysterical laughter behind Jack, and Jack can't contain his grin. "Sorry, _Sam_," Jack corrects himself. "I hope so, _Sam._"

He extends a hand, and Sam takes it, pulling himself up. He tenses, waiting for the pain in his abdomen, but when it doesn't flare he looks down, pulling up his shirt and staring at the smooth skin of his stomach. "You healed me," Sam says, surprised.

Jack nods, frowning, puzzled. "That's...what I was doing," he says. "What did you think I was fixing?"

Sam lifts hesitant fingers to brush his temple. "My brain," he says. "You fixed my brain."

Jack doesn't have to look behind him to know that Anna is still there, glaring into the back of his head. "I was trying to fix your injuries," Jack explains. "I just...you got something from my brain that you could use. It's hard to explain."

Sam nods sagely. "That's okay," he says. "I'll figure it out eventually."

Jack doesn't doubt it one bit.

He helps Sam to his feet, and Dean immediately slides an arm around Sam's shoulders, supporting him. Sam smiles gratefully up at his big brother, nestling comfortably into Dean's grip.

_It only hurts a little_, Jack insists to himself. _Sam doesn't even look like Gray_.

Jack takes the dagger from Dean as Anna walks up to them, her face paler than previously, drawn. She stops right in front of Jack, and says, her voice soft and vicious, "I hope you're happy with yourself, Jack."

"I'm pretty content," he replies shortly.

"The Apocalypse will tear them to pieces," she says. "It would have been better for them to die here."

"Not your call," Jack says. "You don't get to take their lives away from them because you think it'd be _easier_ for them."

Anna sighs, obviously biting back some retort, and looks at the boys. Dean pulls Sam back away from her. She turns to Jack and says quietly enough that only Jack can hear, "Since you're so keen on avoiding paradoxes, you won't protest, I hope, when I take some of this evening from the boys' memories."

Jack bristles in disbelief. "How am I supposed to trust you with that?" he hisses.

"Given that this didn't work," Anna says slowly, hitting her consonants hard in anger, "it'll alter the timeline if they know about the Apocalypse and my kind before their appointed time, which isn't for another...oh, fourteen years or so."

Jack presses his lips together, but nods. "I'm going to be behind you, with this dagger," he says, "and if there's any _hint_ of any funny business I won't hesitate."

"I know," Anna says. She turns to the boys, then tilts her head back to whisper, "You won't hesitate...because you are _so little_ like your Doctor."

Jack presses the dagger against her back a bit harder than strictly necessary, and she stiffens and faces the Winchesters. Dean grips Sam tighter, and says, "Jack?"

"Trust me, Dean," Jack says. "I won't let her hurt you. She just has to do this one thing before I make her leave. Okay? Trust me."

And amazingly, Dean nods, and Sam nods with him.

Jack leans in, putting his lips against Anna's ear, and breathes, "If you hurt them, I will make you suffer."

Anna rolls her eyes and presses two fingers against each of the boys' heads. Their eyes flash for a moment, and when she pulls her fingers away, they are fine. Jack pivots between Anna and the boys, and brandishes the dagger at her. "Now leave," he orders.

Anna glares at him, and vanishes.

Jack droops, suddenly exhausted, and feels Dean's hand on his shoulder. He turns, and sees a worried expression on the older boy's face. "You okay, Jack?" he asks.

"Yeah," Jack lies. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"What was she?" Sam asks. The memory wipe worked, Jack thinks. He wonders if Anna was telling the truth or just covering her tracks.

So Jack shrugs and lies again. "I don't know, Sam. All I know is that we're getting out of here, and _both_ of you are going to the hospital."

"No, we can't go to the—" Dean begins, and Jack cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

"Your dad said the same thing," Jack says, "and he's fine. I can get you in without using your names. But _you_ have a concussion, and Sam, I want to get you checked out just to make sure everything healed right. No fighting."

The boys' faces fall, and they look almost comically dejected, but both of them nod and follow Jack out of the church without further ado.

They get back to the car—Dean knows precisely where they left it, and thankfully paid good attention to their surroundings when he was brought, conscious, to the church—and as Jack opens the back door for them, he sees Dean sling his arm around his brother's neck and pull him in for a rough hug, murmuring, "Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sam bursts out laughing, and it's the best sound Jack has ever heard.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Ah, the last chapter...wrapping up and being cute and whatnot. Thanks for all the support you've shown this story! The next one will be up as soon as I have a couple of chapters knocked out, which will hopefully not be too long. So adieu to Jack and the Wee!chesters, and on to what is looking to be a pretty epic story.

Here's a teaser for the next part of the series: 2008 was a bad year for everybody. Let the speculation begin.

Again, thanks, everybody. I hope you enjoy this little epilogue.

* * *

Jack isn't fond of hospitals. Never has been.

Maybe he's just spent too much time in them, getting dragged there by well-meaning civilians who find his body after a bad fight. Or maybe, perversely, it's because he never spent _enough_ time in them—most of the people he knows are treated in the field, suffer in the trenches, and die outside or on space ships or in military bunkers. Maybe he's never had the opportunity to give them a chance.

At any rate, the pediatric ward isn't as terrible as he thought it would be. Upon arrival Dean had made some truly, amusingly awful faces at the decor (he evidently is not fond of teddy bears), but the doctors said that he would make a full recovery and that he only needed to stay in for another night, just to make sure he was okay. He'd protested, but not very strongly, and Jack suspects that he's glad for the forced opportunity to rest. Sam was given a clean bill of health and a sticker that he accepted bemusedly, as well as permission to sleep in his brother's room, which he accepted with more enthusiasm. The nurse looked surprised to hear from Jack that two boys, at such a young age, were in the witness protection program, but she didn't object and seemed to find the whole thing quite thrilling.

Jack walks through the halls of the general floor, whistling softly, grinning at nurses and orderlies and doctors and patients as he passes. The weather is abysmal—the skies opened up on them as he was driving the boys to the hospital from the church, and the rain hasn't stopped yet—but Jack can't remember the last time he was in such a good mood.

He saved the Winchesters.

(And maybe enabled the Apocalypse, but...details.)

"Good morning!" he calls to an especially handsome nurse, who looks back at him in confusion.

"Good morning," the nurse replies, his lips rising into a puzled smile. His eyes flick down to the objects in Jack's hands. "Um, did you get—"

"Permission? Absolutely," Jack says. "From the patient's doctor herself. Can't deny a kid with big puppy eyes."

"I suppose," the nurse says doubtfully, but Jack is already moving past him down the hall.

Jack stops at Room 314, raps on the door and doesn't wait for an answer before stepping in. John Winchester looks up at him, wrapped and bandaged and hooked up to lots of devices and a couple of IVs that look like they're dosing him with something pleasant. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he regards Jack. "What's that?" he asks.

Jack looks down at the objects in his hands. "Something for the boys," he says. "How are you feeling?"

John shrugs, wincing slightly. "Doctors say I'll be okay," he says. "Broken ribs. Only two. Didn't puncture a lung, so that's...lucky."

"Yeah," Jack says. "I'm glad to hear it."

John nods listlessly, and then, with effort, focuses on Jack. "Are my boys all right?" he asks. "What happened?"

Jack hesitates, and says, "Your boys are fine, John. I think Dean should tell you the story. He has a concussion, but he'll be fine...the doctors are keeping him for observation until tomorrow morning. Sam's just fine. He's with Dean."

"A concussion?" John echoes. "Who...what happened?"

Jack shakes his head. "Too much for right now," he says. "It's a story for when you're not doped up. I'll send Sam down to see you in a minute, okay?"

"No," John says, and Jack frowns. "No, it's okay. Let him stay with his brother. He'll be happier there." A sad sort of smile forms on John's face, and he says, "Two peas in a pod, those boys. Never happier than when they're together."

_Happier than when they're with me_ goes unspoken, but Jack hears it nonetheless. He walks up to John's bed and puts a hand on John's arm (after balancing his packages carefully), and the Hunter looks up at him. "They're lucky to have each other," Jack says quietly. "But they're lucky to have you, too."

John grumbles something, looking not entirely displeased, and Jack leaves the room.

Pediatrics is on the fifth floor, and Jack takes the stairs, skipping every other one while making sure that his cargo isn't disturbed. One or two more nurses question the legality of bringing that to the pediatric ward, but Jack dismisses their concerns with an easy certitude, and finds his way to room 525.

He knocks on the door, and after a moment it opens, revealing a wary Sam. The boy's face clears when he recognizes Jack. "Hey!" he says, almost cheerfully, letting Jack into the room. Curiosity brightens his voice as he asks, "Whatcha got?"

"Jack?" Dean is in his bed—the miracle of sedation—and sounds a little grumpy, but at least he's resting. Jack grins at him, and Dean smiles back. "Hey. You didn't have to come."

"Sure didn't," Jack says, setting his cargo down on the bedside table. Sam leans over Dean's bed to see what it is, and Dean is trying really hard not to look curious. Once they're set down, Jack leans back and just grins.

It takes five seconds for the waiting to be too much for Sam. "What _is_ it?" he cries.

Jack laughs and lifts two boxes out of the bag, setting them side by side on the table. He opens the boxes in front of the wide eyes of the brothers, and looks up to see their reaction.

Sam's is pure enthusiasm as he cries "_Cake!_", but Dean's is softer, sadder, and deeper. He looks at Sam, who's crawling over his bed to get closer to the sweets, and then looks down. Jack is pretty sure he sees a sheen in his eyes, but doesn't say anything.

Sam is standing in front of the table, now, staring at the cake like he's never seen anything like it. It's a simple white cake with vanilla icing and green letters that spell a simple message: _Happy Birthday, Sam_. But the way Sam's looking at it it might as well be the Ark of the Covenant. "It's a birthday cake," Sam says reverently.

"And I heard you're not a cake person," Jack says to Dean, ignoring the boy's emotional state as he knows Dean would want him to, "so I got _you_ a pie."

Dean looks startled, and meets Jack's eyes. "How did you know?" he asks.

"Your dad told me," Jack says, and a smile appears on Dean's face.

"How'd you get this stuff up here, anyway?" he asks. "I didn't think hospitals were big on outside food."

Jack hunkers down with his elbows on the table, and regards Dean solemnly. "There is a skill," he says, "that is very valuable for a certain kind of gentleman. It's passed down from one rogue to another in an ancient and venerable tradition. Do you want to learn it?"

Dean's smile grows into a grin, and he nods.

Jack studies Dean for a moment, and then he, too, nods. "I think you may be the next generation, young one. All right, are you ready?"

"Yes," Dean says, schooling his features into solemnity.

"All you have to do is this," Jack says, and lets loose with a _dazzling_ smile. Dean bursts out laughing, and Sam looks up from the cake. Jack shakes his head. "No, not quite. You try it."

Dean calms himself and, taking a breath, manages a passable impression of Jack's smile. Jack nods approvingly. "Good first try. Keep practicing, and the world will be at your fingertips."

"Is that really what you did?" Dean asks, still grinning.

"Oh, yes," Jack says. "The whole way up to the fifth floor. Anybody asked me if I had permission, I just smiled and said of course I did. And if you act like you know what you're doing, everybody will believe you."

"All right," Dean says, nodding thoughtfully. "I'll remember that."

Jack is sure he will, and wonders briefly what he's just created.

"Can we eat the cake now?" Sam asks, and Jack turns to the bag and takes out a plastic knife, a pack of candles, and a box of matches.

"Not yet," Jack says severely, and Sam frowns, then brightens as Jack places two candles each shaped like the number one on top of the cake, and lighting them. "Gotta make a wish, first."

Sam closes his eyes in concentration, and his lips move silently as he makes his birthday wish on his eleventh birthday. He blows out the candles and opens his eyes, looking pensive.

"Happy birthday, Sammy," Dean says softly, gently punching his brother on the arm. "What'd you wish for?"

"Can't tell you," Sam mutters, and something about the way he says it tells Jack what the boy wished for. Or, rather, _who_ the boy wished for.

Once the boys have settled down and finished their cake and pie, Jack stands, and two pairs of green eyes follow him. "Well," he says, "I guess I'm going to head out, now. Mission accomplished, and all."

"Do you have to go?" Sam asks, and it surprises Jack—visibly, evidently, because Sam continues, "You could stay if you wanted. I don't mind how you feel in my head."

He looks to Dean, who doesn't say anything, but leans back in his bed in resignation, already knowing Jack's answer.

Jack lowers his head, smiling bitterly. The Doctor sent him here to save the boys from being killed by Anna, one way or another, and he did that. He's pretty sure the Doctor _also_ sent him so that he'd remember what there was on this planet to fight for—that people like the Winchester boys exist, and that fighting every day through the blood and the sweat and the grime to keep the Earth safe from all the extraterrestrials who would harm it or its people was worth it, all of it worth it, to make sure that they got a chance to grow up. But how could it be fair for the Doctor to put him in their lives, one more person who showed up once and then left? One more person to abandon them?

But he doesn't have a choice. For their sake as much as anyone else's he has to get back to his work at Torchwood—aliens don't stop showing up just because Captain Jack finds some boys who need somebody to protect them. And he can't take them back to Cardiff, even if John would allow it, because it would only be putting them in more danger. There's nothing he can do.

But _damned_ if he doesn't want to stay.

Jack crouches by Sam and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Sam nods in understanding. "I know," Sam says. "You've got to go. It's okay."

"I told your brother," Jack says, "and I'll tell you, too. I was sent here to protect you by somebody who cares about you. A friend you haven't met yet, but who's watching out for you. And even if I'm not here, if you need me, he'll let me know and I'll come back. Okay?"

Sam nods again, and Jack puts out his hand. Sam looks up at him with a faint smile, and this time, he takes it.

"It's been an honor getting to know you," Jack says seriously, and Sam's smile widens. "Really. A privilege."

"Thanks for saving me," Sam says in return.

Jack smiles and valiantly resists the urge to muss his hair (because while Sam is a kid, he's not a child), and stands. He turns to Dean, who is already shaking his head.

"I don't do chick-flick moments," he says gruffly, and Jack laughs out loud. He walks up to the young man's hospital bed—because after all this, he can't bring himself to think of Dean as a boy anymore; that is a title that has been taken from him—and grips Dean's hand in a firm grasp.

"Then thanks for having my back," he says. "You're a good partner to have. Your dad and brother are lucky."

"Thanks," Dean says quietly. "You weren't bad, yourself."

Jack smiles, and releases Dean's hand, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to both of the boys. "I'm going to head out before somebody figures out I'm not really related to you," he says. "You two keep out of trouble."

The sound of Sam and Dean's laughter follows him out of the room.

He's made it all the way down to the car park before he smells it.

Just the barest hint of sulfur, enough to set off alarms in his head but not in anyone else's. He stops short, and brushes his fingers over his laser in his pocket. "What do you want?" he asks softly, staying under the eaves as the rain pours down.

"Just to congratulate you," Azazel's voice comes from behind him, and Jack feels his presence like an oil slick on his spine. "The Winchesters live to fight another day, I see. Good job, Captain."

Jack turns, deliberately keeping his cool, and says, "I didn't do it for you."

"No, you did it _thanks_ to me," Azazel replies. "That reminds me: I'll take the blade back."

Jack pulls it out of its place in what is normally his pistol's holster, and keeps it out of Azazel's reach. "I'm taking this to Torchwood," he says. "I have tests I want to run on it."

"No, you're going to give it back to me," Azazel says, and there's heat beneath his voice now.

"No," Jack says, "I'm taking it. Consider it payment for a job _well done_." He tucks it back into his holster, his eyes challenging Azazel to make something of it.

Azazel apparently doesn't think it's worth it, and sighs. "You're getting yourself into a fight you don't want to be a part of, Captain," he says. "This is bigger than you realize."

"Story of my life," Jack says with a shrug.

"But hopefully when Sam Winchester realizes his destiny, he'll remember the favor you did him," Azazel continues, and Jack pulls his fist back before he can control himself. Azazel laughs, and Jack struggles to refrain from hitting him, and it's an uphill battle.

"Sam Winchester's _destiny_ is what he makes it," Jack says through his teeth. "I know what your lot wants from him, and there's no way it'll ever happen. Sam is a good kid. He'll make the right call."

Azazel smiles indulgently. "Sure," he says. "You go ahead and think that. But Sam has a role to play, just like everyone does. Just like you did, in the early hours of this morning. And you played it beautifully, by the way. Like a violin. Like a Stradivarius."

"If by saving Sam I made him more like the Doctor, I don't know how that could be a bad thing," Jack says, and he doesn't want to admit that it's mostly for his own benefit.

"Oh, right," Azazel says, "that's the story? Sure. That's what happened. You made him more like the _Doctor_, because _all_ Time Lords were like the Doctor."

"It's the Doctor's blood he has in him," Jack argues. "It's the Doctor who's going to come for him, some day. The Doctor sees good in him, and that's good enough for me."

"And if it's good enough for you, that's all that matters," Azazel says, patting Jack on the shoulder once before Jack twists away from the contact. "I'm sure I'll see you for the big show...give it, oh, twelve years." The demon's yellow eyes glint in the sunlight, and he smiles once more before disappearing.

Jack inhales deeply, not realizing he'd been taking quick, shallow panic breaths, and walks out into the rain.

The Doctor believes in Sam Winchester.

It's good enough for Jack.

Sam Winchester isn't on the side of the angels. He's not deliberately on the side of the demons, either. ButApocalypse or no Apocalypse, end of times or not, Sam Winchester is on the side of the Doctor.

And as Jack climbs in his rental car to make his way back to Cardiff, he knows that that's the only side he's cared about in a very long time.


End file.
